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THE  TUNNEL 


PILGRIMAGE 


I  POINTED  ROOFS 

II  BACKWATER 

III  HONEYCOMB     — • 

IV  THE  TUNNEL    M»J1 

\In  preparation       ty&QSJi 
V     INTERIM      (z.~l 


PILGRIMAGE 

THE    TUNNEL 


BY 

DOROTHY  M.  RICHARDSON 


new  YORK  ALFRED  ?  A  *  KNOPF  mcmxix 


COPYRIGHT,   1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Inc. 


P*INT»D    IN    THI    CNITKD    iTATlS    OT    AM1BICA 


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THE  TUNNEL 


CHAPTER    I 


MIRIAM  paused  with  her  heavy  bag  dragging  at  her 
arm.  It  was  a  disaster.  But  it  was  the  last  of 
Mornington  Road.  To  explain  about  it  would  be  to  bring 
Mornington  Road  here. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  now  "  said  Mrs.  Bailey  as  she  dropped 
her  bag  and  fumbled  for  her  purse. 

"  Oh,  I'd  better  settle  it  at  once  or  I  shall  forget  about 
it.     I'm  so  glad  the  things  have  come  so  soon." 

When  Mrs.  Bailey  had  taken  the  half-crown  they  stood 
smiling  at  each  other.  Mrs.  Bailey  looked  exactly  as  she  had 
done  the  first  time.  It  was  exactly  the  same ;  there  was 
no  disappointment.  The  light  coming  through  the  glass 
above  the  front  door  made  her  look  more  shabby  and  worn. 
Her  hair  was  more  metallic.  But  it  was  the  same  girlish 
figure  and  the  same  smile  triumphing  over  the  badly  fitting 
teeth.  Miriam  felt  like  an  inmate  returning  after  an 
absence.  The  smeariness  of  the  marble-topped  hall  table 
did  not  offend  her.  She  held  herself  in.  It  was  better  to 
begin  as  she  meant  to  go  on.  Behind  Mrs.  Bailey  the  stair- 
case was  beckoning.  There  was  something  waiting  up- 
stairs that  would  be  gone  if  she  stayed  talking  to  Mrs. 
Bailey. 

Assuring  Mrs.  Bailey  that  she  remembered  the  way  to  the 
room  she  started  at  last  on  the  journey  up  the  many  flights 
of  stairs.  The  feeling  of  confidence  that  had  come  the 
first  time  she  mounted  them  with  Mrs.  Bailey  returned  now. 

ii 


12  THE    TUNNEL 

She  could  not  remember  noticing  anything  then  but  a  large 
brown  dinginess,  one  rich  warm  even  tone  everywhere  in  the 
house;  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  cold  harshly  lit  little  bed- 
room in  Mornington  Road.  The  day  was  cold.  But  this 
house  did  not  seem  cold  and  when  she  rounded  the  first 
flight  and  Mrs.  Bailey  was  out  of  sight  the  welcome  of  the 
place  fell  upon  her.  She  knew  it  well,  better  than  any  place 
she  had  known  in  all  her  wanderings  —  the  faded  umbers 
and  browns  of  the  stair  carpet,  the  gloomy  heights  of  wall,  a 
patternless  sheen  where  the  staircase  lights  fell  upon  it  and 
in  the  shadowed  parts  a  blurred  scrolling  pattern  in  dull 
madder  on  a  brown  background ;  the  dark  landings  with 
lofty  ceilings  and  high  dark  polished  doors  surmounted 
by  classical  reliefs  in  grimed  plaster,  the  high  staircase 
windows  screened  by  long  smoke  grimed  lace  curtains.  On 
the  top  landing  the  ceiling  came  down  nearly  level  with  the 
tops  of  the  doors.  The  light  from  above  made  the  little 
grained  doors  stare  brightly.  Patches  of  fresh  brown  and 
buff  shone  here  and  there  in  the  threadbare  linoleum.  The 
cracks  of  the  flooring  were  filled  with  dust  and  dust  lay 
along  the  rim  of  the  skirting.  Two  large  tin  trunks  stand- 
ing one  upon  the  other  almost  barred  the  passage  way.  It 
was  like  a  landing  in  a  small  suburban  lodging-house,  a  small 
silent  afternoon  brightness,  shut  in  and  smelling  of  dust. 
Silence  flooded  up  from  the  lower  darkness.  The  hall 
where  she  had  stood  with  Mrs.  Bailey  was  far  away  below 
and  below  that  were  basements  deep  in  the  earth.  The 
outside  of  the  house  with  its  first-floor  balcony,  the  broad 
shallow  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  dark  green  front  door, 
the  little  steep  flight  running  sharply  down  into  the  railed 
area  seemed  as  far  away  as  yesterday. 

The  little  landing  was  a  bright  plateau,  under  the  sky- 
light, shut  off  by  its  brightness  from  the  rest  of  the  house, 
the  rooms  leading  from  it  would  be  bright  and  flat  and 


THE   TUNNEL  13 

noisy  with  light  compared  with  the  rest  of  the  house. 
From  above  came  the  tap-tap  of  a  door  swinging  gently 
in  a  breeze  and  behind  the  sound  was  a  soft  faint  continuous 
murmur.  She  ran  up  the  short  twisting  flight  of  bare  stairs 
into  a  blaze  of  light.  Would  her  room  be  a  bright  suburban 
bedroom?  Had  it  been  a  dull  day  when  she  first  called? 
The  skylight  was  blue  and  gold  with  light,  its  cracks 
threads  of  bright  gold.  Three  little  glaring  yellow  grained 
doors  opened  on  to  the  small  strip  of  uncovered  dusty 
flooring;  to  the  left  the  little  box-loft,  to  the  right  the 
empty  garret  behind  her  own  and  in  front  of  her  her  own 
door  ajar;  tapping  in  the  breeze.  The  little  brass  knob 
rattled  loosely  in  her  hand  and  the  hinge  ran  up  the  scale 
to  a  high  squeak  as  she  pushed  open  the  door  and  down 
again  as  it  closed  behind  her  neatly  with  a  light  wooden 
sound.  The  room  was  half  dark  shadow  and  half  brilliant 
light. 


She  closed  the  door  and  stood  just  inside  it  looking  at 
the  room.  It  was  smaller  than  her  memory  of  it.  When 
she  had  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  with  Mrs.  Bailey 
she  had  looked  at  nothing  but  Mrs.  Bailey,  waiting  for 
the  moment  to  ask  about  the  rent.  Coming  upstairs  she 
had  felt  the  room  was  hers  and  barely  glanced  at  it  when 
Mrs.  Bailey  opened  the  door.  From  the  moment  of  waiting 
on  the  stone  steps  outside  the  front  door  everything  had 
opened  to  the  movement  of  her  impulse.  She  was  surprised 
now  at  her  familiarity  with  the  detail  of  the  room  .  .  . 
that  idea  of  visiting  places  in  dreams.  It  was  something 
more  than  that  ...  all  the  real  part  of  your  life  has  a  real 
dream  in  it ;  some  of  the  real  dream  part  of  you  coming 
true.  You  know  in  advance  when  you  are  really  following 
your  life.     These  things  are  familiar  because  reality  is  here. 


i4  THE   TUNNEL 

Coming  events  cast  light.  It  is  like  dropping  everything 
and  walking  backwards  to  something  you  know  is  there. 
However  far  you  go  out  you  come  back.  ...  I  am  back 
now  where  I  was  before  I  began  trying  to  do  things  like 
other  people.  I  left  home  to  get  here.  None  of  those 
things  can  touch  me  here.     They  are  mine.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  The  room  asserted  its  chilliness.  But  the  dark 
yellow  graining  of  the  wall-paper  was  warm.  It  shone 
warmly  in  the  stream  of  light  pouring  through  the  barred 
lattice  window.  In  the  further  part  of  the  room  darkened 
by  the  steep  slope  of  the  roof  it  gleamed  like  stained  wood. 
The  window  space  was  a  little  square  wooden  room,  the  long 
low  double  lattice  breaking  the  roof,  the  ceiling  and  walls 
warmly  reflecting  its  oblong  of  bright  light.  Close  against 
the  window  was  a  firm  little  deal  table  covered  with  a  thin 
brightly  coloured  printed  cotton  tablecloth.  When  Miriam 
drew  her  eyes  from  its  confusion  of  rich  fresh  tones  the 
bedroom  seemed  very  dark.  The  bed  drawn  in  under 
the  slope  showed  an  expanse  of  greyish  white  counterpane, 
the  carpet  was  colourless  in  the  gloom.  She  opened  the 
door.  Silence  came  in  from  the  landing.  The  blue  and 
gold  had  gone  from  the  skylight.  Its  sharp  grey  light  shone 
in  over  the  dim  colours  of  the  threadbare  carpet  and  on 
to  the  black  bars  of  the  little  grate  and  the  little  strip  of 
tarnished  yellow  grained  mantelpiece,  running  along  to 
the  bedhead  where  a  small  globeless  gas  bracket  stuck  out 
at  an  angle  over  the  head  of  the  bed.  The  sight  of  her 
luggage  piled  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace  drew 
her  forward  into  the  dimness.  There  was  a  small  chest 
of  drawers  battered  and  almost  paintless  but  with  two 
long  drawers  and  two  small  ones  and  a  white  cover  on  which 
stood  a  little  looking  glass  framed  in  polished  pine  .  .  . 
and  a  small  yellow  wardrobe  with  a  deep  drawer  under  the 
hanging  part  and  a  little  drawer  in  the  rickety  little  wash- 


THE   TUNNEL  15 

stand  and  another  above  the  dusty  cupboard  of  the  little 
mahogany  sideboard.  I'll  paint  the  bright  part  of  the 
ceiling;  scrolls  of  leaves.  .  .  .  Shutting  the  quiet  door  she 
went  into  the  brilliance  of  the  window  space.  The  out- 
side world  appeared;  a  long  row  of  dormer  windows  and 
the  square  tops  of  the  larger  windows  below  them,  the 
windows  black  or  sheeny  grey  in  the  light,  cut  out  against 
the  dinginess  of  smoke  grimed  walls.  The  long  strip  of 
roof  sloping  back  from  the  dormers  was  a  pure  even  dark 
grey.  She  bent  to  see  the  sky,  clear  soft  heavy  grey,  striped 
by  the  bars  of  her  window.  Behind  the  top  rim  of  the  iron 
framework  of  the  bars  was  a  discoloured  roll  of  window 
blind.  Then  the  bars  must  move.  .  .  .  Shifting  the  table 
she  pressed  close  to  the  barred  window.  It  smelt  strongly 
of  rust  and  dust.  Outside  she  saw  grey  tiles  sloping  steeply 
from  the  window  to  a  cemented  gutter  beyond  which  was  a 
little  stone  parapet  about  two  feet  high.  A  soft  wash  of 
madder  lay  along  the  grey  tiles.  There  must  be  an  after- 
glow somewhere,  just  out  of  sight.  Her  hands  went 
through  the  bars  and  lifted  the  little  rod  which  held  the  lat- 
tice half  open.  The  little  square  four  paned  frame  swung 
free  and  flattened  itself  back  against  the  fixed  panes,  out  of 
reach,  its  bar  sticking  out  over  the  leads.  Drawing  back 
grimed  fingers  and  wrists  striped  with  grime  she  grasped 
the  iron  bars  and  pulled.  The  heavy  framework  left  the 
window  frame  with  a  rusty  creak  and  the  sound  of  paint 
peeling  and  cracking.  It  was  very  heavy  but  it  came  up 
and  up  until  her  arms  were  straight  above  her  head  and 
looking  up  she  saw  a  stout  iron  ring  in  a  little  trap  door 
in  the  wooden  ceiling  and  a  hook  in  the  centre  of  the  end- 
most  bar  in  the  iron  framework. 

Kneeling  on  the  table  to  raise  the  frame  once  more  and 
fix  it  to  the  ceiling  she  saw  the  whole  length  of  the  top 
row  of  windows  across  the  way  and  wide  strips  of  grimy 


16  Til  E    TUNNEL 

stucco  placed  across  the  house  fronts  between  the  windows. 

The  framework  of  the  freed  window  was  cracked  and 
blistered  but  the  little  square  panes  were  clean.  There 
were  four  little  windows  in  the  row,  each  with  four  square 
panes.  The  outmost  windows  were  immovable.  The  one 
next  to  the  open  one  had  lost  its  bar,  but  a  push  set  it  free 
and  it  swung  wide.  She  leaned  out  holding  back  from  the 
dusty  sill  and  met  a  soft  fresh  breeze  streaming  straight  in 
from  the  west.  The  distant  murmur  of  traffic  changed 
into  the  clear  plonk  plonk  and  rumble  of  swift  vehicles. 
Right  and  left  at  the  far  end  of  the  vista  were  glimpses  of 
bare  trees.  The  cheeping  of  birds  came  faintly  from  the 
distant  squares  and  clear  and  sharp  from  neighbouring 
roofs.  To  the  left  the  trees  were  black  against  pure  grey, 
to  the  right  they  stood  spread  and  bunched  in  front  of  the 
distant  buildings  blocking  the  vista.  Running  across  the 
rose-washed  facade  of  the  central  mass  she  could  just  make 
out  "  Edward's  Family  Hotel  "  in  large  black  letters. 
That  was  the  distant  view  of  the  courtyard  of  Euston 
Station.  ...  In  between  that  and  the  square  of  trees  ran 
the  Euston  Road,  by  day  and  by  night,  her  unsleeping 
guardian,  the  rim  of  the  world  beyond  which  lay  the 
northern  suburbs,  banished. 

From  a  window  somewhere  down  the  street  out  of  sight 
came  the  sound  of  an  unaccompanied  violin,  clearly  attack- 
ing and  dropping  and  attacking  a  passage  of  half  a  dozen 
bars.  The  music  stood  serene  and  undisturbed  in  the  air 
of  the  quiet  street.  The  man  was  following  the  phrase, 
listening;  strengthening  and  clearing  it,  completely  undis- 
turbed and  unconscious  of  his  surroundings.  '  Good 
heavens '  she  breathed  quietly,  feeling  the  extremity  of 
relief,  passing  some  boundary,  emerging  strong  and  equipped 
in  a  clear  medium.  .  .  .  She  turned  back  into  the  twilight 
of  the  room.     Twenty-one  and  only  one  room  to  hold  the 


THE   TUNNEL  17 

richly  renewed  consciousness,  and  a  living  to  earn,  but  the 
self  that  was  with  her  in  the  room  was  the  untouched 
tireless  self  of  her  seventeenth  year  and  all  the  earlier 
time.  The  familiar  light  moved  within  the  twilight,  the 
old  light.  .  .  .  She  might  as  well  wash  the  grime  from 
her  wrists  and  hands.  There  was  a  scrap  of  soap  in  the 
soap  dish,  dry  and  cracked  and  seamed  with  dirt.  The 
washstand  rocked  as  she  washed  her  hands;  the  toilet 
things  did  not  match,  the  towel-horse  held  one  small  thin 
face  towel  and  fell  sideways  against  the  wardrobe  as  she 
drew  off  the  towel.  When  the  gas  was  on  she  would  be  visi- 
ble from  the  opposite  dormer  window.  Short  skimpy  faded 
Madras  muslin  curtains  screened  a  few  inches  of  the  end- 
most  windows  and  were  caught  back  and  tied  up  with  tape. 
She  untied  the  tape  and  disengaged  with  the  curtains  a 
strong  smell  of  dust.  The  curtains  would  cut  off  some  of 
the  light.  She  tied  them  firmly  back  and  pulled  at  the  edge 
of  the  rolled  up  blind.  The  blind  streaked  and  mottled 
with  ironmould  came  down  in  a  stifling  cloud  of  dust.  She 
rolled  it  up  again  and  washed  once  more.  She  must  ask 
for  a  bath  towel  and  do  something  about  the  blind,  sponge 
it  or  something;  that  was  all. 

3 

A  light  had  come  in  the  dormer  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  It  remained  unscreened.  Watching  carefully  she 
could  see  only  a  dim  figure  moving  amongst  motionless 
shapes.  No  need  to  trouble  about  the  blind.  London  could 
come  freely  in  day  and  night  through  the  unscreened  happy 
little  panes;  light  and  darkness  and  darkness  and  light. 

London,  just  outside  all  the  time,  coming  in  with  the 
light,  coming  in  with  the  darkness,  always  present  in  the 
depths  of  the  air  in  the  room. 


18  THE   TUNNEL 

4 

The  gas  flared  out  into  a  wide  bright  flame.  The  dingy 
ceiling  and  counterpane  turned  white.  The  room  was  a 
square  of  bright  light  and  had  a  rich  brown  glow,  shut 
brightly  in  by  the  straight  square  of  level  white  ceiling 
and  thrown  up  by  the  oblong  that  sloped  down,  white, 
at  the  side  of  the  big  bed  almost  to  the  floor.  She  left 
her  things  half  unpacked  about  the  floor  and  settled  her- 
self on  the  bed  under  the  gas  jet  with  the  Voyage  of  the 
Beagle.  Unpacking  had  been  a  distraction  from  the  glory, 
very  nice,  getting  things  straight.  But  there  was  no  need 
to  do  anything  or  think  about  anything  .  .  .  ever,  here. 
No  interruption,  no  one  watching  or  speculating  or  treating 
one  in  some  particular  way  that  had  to  be  met.  Mrs. 
Bailey  did  not  speculate.  She  knew,  everything.  Every 
evening  here  would  have  a  glory,  but  not  the  same  kind  of 
glory.  Reading  would  be  more  of  a  distraction  than  un- 
packing. She  read  a  few  lines.  They  had  a  fresh  attractive 
meaning.  Reading  would  be  real.  The  dull  adventures 
of  the  Beagle  looked  real,  coming  along  through  reality. 
She  put  the  book  on  her  knee  and  once  more  met  the  clear 
brown  shock  of  her  room. 

5 
The  carpet  is  awful,  faded  and  worn  almost  to  bits. 
But  it  is  right,  in  this  room.  .  .  .  This  is  the  furnished 
room ;  one  room.  I  have  come  to  it.  "  You  could  get  a 
furnished  room  at  about  seven  shillings  rental."  The  awful 
feeling,  no  tennis,  no  dancing,  no  house  to  move  in,  no 
society.  The  relief  at  first  when  Bennett  found  those 
people  .  .  .  maddening  endless  roads  of  little  houses  in 
the  east  wind  .  .  .  their  kind  way  of  giving  more  than 
they  had  undertaken,  and  smiling  and  waiting  for  smiles 


THE   TUNNEL  19 

and  dying  all  the  time  in  some  dark  way  without  knowing 
it.  Filling  the  rooms  and  the  piano  and  the  fern  on  the 
serge  table  cloth  and  the  broken  soap  dish  in  the  bath 
room  until  it  was  impossible  to  read  or  think  or  play  because 
of  them,  the  feeling  of  them  stronger  and  stronger  till 
there  was  nothing  but  crying  over  the  trays  of  meals  and 
wanting  to  scream.  The  thought  of  the  five  turnings 
to  the  station,  all  into  long  little  roads  looking  alike  and 
making  you  forget  which  was  which  and  lose  your  way, 
was  still  full  of  pain  .  .  .  the  relief  of  moving  to  Granville 
Place  still  a  relief,  though  it  felt  a  mistake  from  the  first. 
Mrs.  Corrie's  old  teacher  liking  only  certain  sorts  of  people 
knew  it  was  a  mistake,  with  her  peevish  silky  old  face  and 
her  antique  brooch.  But  it  had  been  the  beginning  of  Lon- 
don. .  .  .  Bond  Street  that  Sunday  morning  in  the  thick 
fog ;  these  sudden  pictures  gleaming  in  a  window,  filmy  .  .  . 
von  Hier.  Adelina  Compayne,  hanging  out  silk  stockings 
on  the  top  balustrade.  "  I  love  cawfy  "...  that  was  the 
only  real  thing  that  had  been  said  downstairs.  There  was 
no  need  to  have  been  frightened  of  these  two  women  in 
black  silk  evening  dresses.  None  of  these  clever  things 
were  real.  They  said  young  Asquith  is  a  really  able  man 
to  hide  their  thoughts.  The  American  Academy  pupils 
talked  together  to  keep  everybody  off,  except  when  they 
made  their  clever  jokes  ..."  if  anyone  takes  that  top  bit 
there'll  be  murder  Miss  Spink."  When  they  went  out  of 
the  room  they  looked  silly.  The  young  man  was  real  some- 
where else. 

The  little  man  talking  about  the  wonders  of  the  linotype 
in  the  smoking  room.  .  .  .  How  did  I  get  into  the  smoking 
room?  Someone  probably  told  Miss  Spink  I  talked  to  him 
in  the  smoking  room  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  Perhaps  his 
wife.     If  they  could  have  seen.     It  was  so  surprising  to  hear 


ao  THETUNNEL 

anybody  suddenly  talking.  Perhaps  he  began  in  the  hall 
and  ushered  me  into  the  smoking  room.  There  was  no  one 
there  and  I  can't  remember  anything  about  the  linotype, 
only  the  quiet  and  the  talking  face  and  suddenly  feeling 
in  the  heart  of  London.  But  it  was  soon  after  that  they 
all  began  being  stand-offish ;  before  Mr.  Chamberlayne 
came ;  before  Adela  began  playing  Esther  Summerson  at 
the  Kennington.  They  approved  of  my  going  down  to 
fetch  her  until  he  began  coming  too.  The  shock  of  seeing 
her  clumsy  heavy  movements  on  the  stage  and  her  face 
looking  as  though  it  were  covered  with  starch.  ...  I  can 
think  about  it  all,  here,  and  not  mind. 


She  was  beautiful.  It  was  happiness  to  sit  and  watch 
her  smoking  so  badly,  in  bed,  in  the  strip  of  room,  her 
cloud  of  hair  against  the  wall  in  the  candlelight,  two  o'clock 
.  .  .  the  Jesuit  who  had  taught  her  chess  .  .  .  and  Michael 
Somebody,  the  little  book  "  The  Purple  Pillar."  He  was  an 
author  and  he  wanted  to  marry  her  and  take  her  back  to 
Ireland.  Perhaps  by  now  she  was  back  from  America  and 
had  gone,  just  out  of  kindness.  She  was  strong  and  beau- 
tiful and  good,  sitting  up  in  her  chemise,  smoking.  .  .  .  I've 
got  that  photograph  of  her  as  Marcia  somewhere.  I  must 
put  it  up.  Miss  Spink  was  surprised  that  last  week,  the  stu- 
dents getting  me  into  their  room  .  .  .  the  dark  clean  shining 
piano,  the  azaleas  and  the  muslin  shaded  lamp,  the  way  they 
all  sat  in  their  evening  dresses,  lounging  and  stiff  with  stiff 
clean  polished  hair.  ..."  Miss  Dust's  here's  going  to  be 
the  highest  soprano  in  the  States."  ..."  None  of  that  Miss 
Thicker."  ..."  When  she  caught  that  top  note  and  the 
gold  medal  she  went  right  up  top,  to  stay  there,  that  minute." 

She  was  surprised  when  Mrs.  Potter  took  me  to  hear 
Melba.     I   heard   Melba.     I   don't   remember  hearing  her. 


THE   TUNNEL  21 

English  opera  houses  are  small ;  there  are  fine  things  all  over 
the  world.  If  you  see  them  all  you  can  compare  one  with 
the  other;  but  then  you  don't  see  or  hear  anything  at  all. 
It  seems  strange  to  be  American  and  at  the  same  time  stout 
and  middle-aged.  It  would  have  got  more  and  more  difficult 
with  all  those  people.  The  dreadful  way  the  Americans  got 
intimate  and  then  talked  or  hinted  openly  everywhere  about 
intimate  things.  No  one  knew  how  intimate  Miss  O'Veagh 
was.  I  shall  remember.  There  is  something  about  being 
Irish  Roman  Catholic  that  makes  happiness.  She  did  not 
seem  to  think  the  George  Street  room  awful.  She  was  sur- 
prised when  I  talked  about  the  hole  in  the  wall  and  the  cold 
and  the  imbecile  servant  and  the  smell  of  ether.  "  We  are 
brought  up  from  the  first  to  understand  that  we  must  never 
believe  anything  a  man  says."  She  came  and  sat  and  talked 
and  wrote  after  she  had  gone  ..."  goodbye  —  sweet 
blessed  little  rose  of  Mary  "...  she  tried  to  make  me  think 
I  was  young  and  pretty.  She  was  sorry  for  me  without 
saying  so. 

I  should  never  have  gone  to  Mornington  Road  unless  I 
had  been  nearly  mad  with  sorrow  ...  if  Miss  Thomas 
disapproved  of  germs  and  persons  who  let  apartments  why 
did  she  come  and  take  a  room  at  George  Street  ?  She  must 
have  seen  she  drove  me  nearly  mad  with  sorrow.  The 
thought  of  Wales  full  of  Welsh  people  like  her,  makes  one 
mad  with  sorrow.  .  .  .  Did  she  think  I  could  get  to  know 
her  by  hearing  all  her  complaints?  She's  somewhere  now, 
sending  someone  mad. 

I  was  mad  already  when  I  went  to  Mornington  Road. 

"You'll  be  all  right  with  Mrs.  Swanson  "  ...  the  awful 
fringes,  the  horror  of  the  ugly  clean  little  room,  the  horror 
of  Mrs.  Swanson's  heavy  old  body  moving  slowly  about  the 
house,  a  heavy  dark  mountain,  fringes,  bugles,  slow  dead 
eyes,  slow  dead  voice,  slow  grimacing  evil  smile  .  .  .  house- 


22  THK   TUNNEL 

keeper  to  the  Duke  of  Something  and  now  moving  slowly 
about  heavy  with  disapproval.  She  thought  of  me  as  a  busi- 
ness young  lady. 

7 

Following  advice  is  certain  to  be  wrong.  When  you  don't 
follow  advice  there  may  be  awful  things.  But  they  are  not 
arranged  beforehand.  And  when  they  come  you  do  not 
know  that  they  are  awful  until  you  have  half  got  hold  of 
something  else.  Then  they  change  into  something  that  has 
not  been  awful.  Things  that  remain  awful  are  in  some  way 
not  finished.  .  .  .  Those  women  are  awful.  They  will  get 
more  and  more  awful,  still  disliking  and  disapproving  till 
they  die.  I  shall  not  see  them  again.  ...  I  will  never  again 
be  at  the  mercy  of  such  women  or  at  all  in  the  places  where 
they  are.  That  means  keeping  free  of  all  groups.  In 
groups  sooner  or  later  one  of  them  appears,  dead  and  sight- 
less and  bringing  blindness  and  death  .  .  .  although  they 
seem  to  like  brightness  and  children  and  the  young  people 
they  approve  of.  I  run  away  from  them  because  I  must. 
They  kill  me.  The  thought  of  their  death  is  awful.  Even 
in  heaven  no  one  could  explain  anything  to  them  if  they 
remain  as  they  are.  Wherever  people  advise  you  to  go 
there  is  in  the  end  one  of  those  women.  .  .  . 

8 

When  she  turned  out  the  gas  the  window  spaces  remained 
faintly  alight  with  a  soft  light  like  moonlight.  At  the  win- 
dow she  found  a  soft  bluish  radiance  cast  up  from  below 
upon  the  opposite  walls  and  windows.  It  went  up  into 
the  clear  blue  darkness  of  the  sky. 

When  she  lay  down  the  bed  smelt  faintly  of  dust.  The 
air  about  her  head  under  the  sharply  sloping  ceiling  was  still 
a  little  warm  with  the  gas.     It  was  full  of  her  untrammelled 


THE   TUNNEL  23 

thoughts.  Her  luggage  was  lying  about,  quite  near.  She 
thought  of  washing  in  the  morning  in  the  bright  light  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room  .  .  .  leaves  crowding  all  round  the  lat- 
tice and  here  and  there  a  pink  rose  .  .  .  several  pink  roses 
.  .  .  the  lovely  air  chilling  the  water  .  .  .  the  basin  quite  up 
against  the  lattice  .  .  .  dew  splashing  off  the  rose  bushes  in 
the  little  garden  almost  dark  with  trellises  and  trees,  crowd- 
ing with  Harriett  through  the  little  damp  stiff  gate,  the  sud- 
den lineny  smell  of  Harriett's  pinafore  and  the  thought  of 
Harriett  in  it,  feeling  the  same,  sudden  bright  sunshine,  two 
shouts,  great  cornfields  going  up  and  up  with  a  little  track 
between  them  ...  up  over  Blewburton  .  .  .  Whittenham 
Clumps.  Before  I  saw  Whittenham  Clumps  I  had  always 
known  them.  But  we  saw  them  before  we  knew  they  were 
called  Whittenham  Clumps.  It  was  a  surprise  to  know  any- 
body who  had  seen  them  and  that  they  had  a  name. 

9 

St.  Pancras  bells  were  clamouring  in  the  room;  rapid 
scales,  beginning  at  the  top,  coming  with  a  loud  full  thump 
on  to  the  fourth  note  and  finishing  with  a  rush  to  the  lowest 
which  was  hardly  touched  before  the  top  note  hung  again 
in  the  air,  sounding  outdoors  clean  and  clear  while  all  the 
other  notes  still  jangled  together  in  her  room.  Nothing  had 
changed.  The  night  was  like  a  moment  added  to  the  day ; 
like  years  going  backwards  to  the  beginning ;  and  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine  the  unchanging  things  began  again,  per- 
fectly new.  She  leaped  out  of  bed  into  the  clamorous  still- 
ness and  stood  in  the  window  rolling  up  the  warm  hair  that 
fell  like  a  shawl  round  her  shoulders.  A  cup  of  tea  and 
then  the  'bus  to  Harriett's.  A  'bus  somewhere  just  out  there 
beyond  the  morning  stillness  of  the  street.  What  an  adven- 
ture to  go  out  and  take  a  'bus  without  having  to  face  any- 
body.    They  were  all  out  there,  away  somewhere,  the  very 


24  THE   TUNNEL 

thought  and  sight  of  them,  disapproving  and  deploring  her 
surroundings.  She  listened.  There  they  were.  There 
were  their  very  voices,  coming  plaintive  and  reproachful 
with  a  held-in  indignation,  intonations  that  she  knew  inside 
and  out,  coming  on  bells  from  somewhere  beyond  the 
squares  —  another  church.  She  withdrew  the  coloured 
cover  and  set  her  spirit  lamp  on  the  inkstained  table.  Strong 
bright  light  was  standing  outside  the  window.  The  clamour 
of  the  bells  had  ceased.  From  far  away  down  in  the  street 
a  loud  hoarse  voice  came  thinly  up.  Referee  —  Lloyd's  — 
Sunday  Times  —  People  —  pypa.  ...  A  front  door  opened 
with  a  loud  crackle  of  paint.  The  voice  dropped  to  speaking 
tones  that  echoed  clearly  down  the  street  and  came  up  clear 
and  soft  and  confidential.  Referee?  Lloyd's?  The  door 
closed  with  a  large  firm  wooden  sound  and  the  harsh  voice 
went  on  down  the  street. 

St.  Pancras  bells  burst  forth  again.  Faintly  interwoven 
with  their  bright  headlong  scale  were  the  clear  sweet  deli- 
cate contralto  of  the  more  distant  bells  playing  very  swiftly 
and  reproachfully  a  five  finger  exercise  in  a  minor  key.  That 
must  be  a  very  high-Anglican  church;  with  light  coming 
through  painted  windows  on  to  carvings  and  decorations. 

10 

As  she  began  on  her  solid  slice  of  bread  and  butter  St. 
Pancras  bells  stopped  again.  In  the  stillness  she  could  hear 
the  sound  of  her  own  munching.  She  stared  at  the  surface 
of  the  table  that  held  her  plate  and  cup.  It  was  like  sitting 
up  to  the  nursery  table.  "  How  frightfully  happy  I  am," 
she  thought  with  bent  head.  Happiness  streamed  along 
her  arms  and  from  her  head.  St.  Pancras  bells  began 
playing  a  hymn  tune  in  single  firm  beats  with  intervals 
between  that  left  each  note  standing  for  a  moment  gently 
in    the   air.     The   first    two    lines    were    playing   carefully 


THE   TUNNEL  25 

through  to  the  distant  accompaniment  of  the  rapid  weaving 
and  interweaving  in  a  regular  unbroken  pattern  of  the  five 
soft  low  contralto  bells.  The  third  line  of  the  hymn  ran 
through  Miriam's  head  a  ding-dong  to  and  fro  from  tone  to 
semitone.  The  bells  played  it  out,  without  the  semitone, 
with  a  perfectly  satisfying  falsity.  Miriam  sat  hunched 
against  the  table  listening  for  the  ascending  stages  of  the  last 
line.  The  bells  climbed  gently  up,  made  a  faint  flat  dab  at 
the  last  top  note,  left  it  in  the  air  askew  above  the  decorous 
little  tune  and  rushed  away  down  their  scale  as  if  to  cover 
the  impropriety.  The  clamoured  recklessly  mingling  with 
Miriam's  shout  of  joy  as  they  banged  against  the  wooden 
walls  of  the  window  space. 


CHAPTER    II 


ur\  EEN  to  church?"  said  Gerald  digging  his  shoulders 
J   into  his  chair. 

"No.     Have  you?" 

"  We've  not  been  for  weeks.  .  .  .  Everybody  thinks  us 
awful  heathens." 

"  P'raps  you  are." 

"  It's  Curls.  She  says  she's  hanged  if  she's  going  any 
more." 

"  I  can't  stand  the  vicar,"  said  Harriett.  "  He  doesn't 
believe  a  word  he  says." 

Fancy  Harriett !  .  .  . 

"  Besides,  what's  the  good?  " 

"  Oh,  there  you  are." 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  church  once  in  a  way 
to  my  way  of  thinking  if  it's  a  decent  high  musical  service." 

"  Even  Eve  hardly  ever  goes  now  —  and  nobody  could 
possibly  be  more  goody  than  she  is." 

This  was  disquieting.  It  was  one  thing  to  be  the  agnostic 
of  the  family  —  but  Eve  and  Harriett.  Miriam  pondered 
resentfully  while  Gerald  smoked  and  flicked  his  clothing  and 
Harriett  sat  upright  and  pursed  and  untroubled  in  her  great 
chair.  She  wondered  whether  she  ought  to  say  something 
about  Unitarianism.  But  after  all  there  might  not  be  any- 
thing in  it  and  they  might  not  feel  the  relief  of  the  way  it 
cleared  up  the  trouble  about  Christ.  Besides  there  was  no 
worry  here  in  the  room.     A  discussion  would  lead  nowhere. 

26 


THE   TUNNEL  27 

They  could  all  three  look  at  each  other  if  they  wanted  to  and 
laugh  everything  off.  In  the  middle  of  a  sleepy  Sunday 
afternoon  with  nothing  to  do  sitting  in  three  huge  chairs  and 
looking  at  each  other  they  were  all  right.  Harriett's 
strength  and  scorn  were  directed  against  everything  in  the 
world  but  not  against  herself  .  .  .  never  against  herself. 
Harriett  often  thought  her  grumpy  and  ill-tempered,  but  she 
approved  of  her.     She  was  approving  now. 

"  After  all  Frills  it's  good  form  to  go  "  Gerald  said  idly. 
"  Go  on.     Smart  people  go  to  show  their  clothes." 

"  Well,  we've  shown  ours." 

Harriett  flew  out  of  her  chair  and  daintily  kicked  him. 

He  grabbed  and  missed  and  sank  back  wailing,  his  face 
hidden  in  a  cushion.  Her  dainty  foot  flew  out  once  more 
and  he  smothered  a  shriek. 

"  Shut  up  "  said  Harriett  curling  herself  up  in  her  chair. 

Gerald  wailed  on. 

"  Do  we  smoke  in  here?  "  said  Miriam,  wanting  the  scene 
to  drop  or  change  while  it  was  perfect.  She  would  tell  them 
now  about  her  change  of  lodgings. 

"  Yes  "  said  Harriett  absently  with  an  eye  on  Gerald. 

"  I've  changed  my  diggings "  began  Miriam  formally, 
fumbling  for  her  packet  of  cigarettes.  Harriett  was  hurl- 
ing a  cushion.  Gerald  crumpled  into  the  depths  of  his  chair 
and  sobbed  aloud,  beating  with  his  arms. 

"  Stop  it  silly  "  piped  Harriett  blushing. 

"  I've  changed  my  diggings  "  repeated  Miriam  uncomfort- 
ably. Harriett's  face  flashed  a  response.  Gerald's  loud 
wailings  were  broken  by  beseeching  cries.  Real,  absolutely 
real  and  satisfying.  Miriam  answered  them  from  some  far 
deep  in  herself  as  if  they  were  her  own  cries.  Harry  was 
embarrassed.  Her  bright  strength  was  answering.  She 
was  ashamed  at  being  seen  answering. 

Miriam  got  up  conversationally  and  began  looking  about 


28  THETUNNEL 

for  matches  in  the  soft  curtained  drawing-room  light. 
There  were  swift  movements  and  Harriett's  voice  busily 
chiding.  When  she  turned  Gerald  was  sitting  on  the  floor 
at  Harriett's  knee  beating  it  gently  with  his  head. 

"Got  a  match,  G?"  she  said  seeing  in  imagination  the 
flare  of  the  match  in  the  soft  greenish  glare  of  the  room. 
There  was  bright  light  all  round  the  house  and  a  glare  of 
brightness  in  the  garden,  beyond  the  curtains.  "  Rather," 
said  Gerald,  "  dozens."  He  sat  up  and  handed  out  a  box. 
Leaning  back  against  Harriett's  knee  he  began  intoning  a 
little  poem  of  appeal.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  front  door 
bell.  Miriam  got  herself  to  the  piano  putting  cigarettes  and 
matches  behind  a  vase  on  the  mantelshelf.  "  That's  old  Tre- 
mayne "  said  Gerald  cheerfully,  shooting  his  linen  and 
glancing  in  the  strip  of  mirror  in  the  overmantel.  The  door 
opened  admitting  the  light  from  the  hall.  The  curtains  at 
the  open  French  windows  swayed  forward  flooding  the  room 
with  the  bright  garden  light.  Into  the  brightness  stepped 
Mr.  Tremayne,  grey-clad  and  with  a  pink  rose  in  his  button- 
hole. 

Over  tea  they  heard  the  story  of  his  morning  and  how  it 
had  been  interrupted  by  the  man  on  the  floor  above  who  had 
come  down  in  his  dressing  gown  to  tell  him  about  a  birthday 
party  .  .  .  the  two  men  sitting  telling  each  other  stories 
about  drinks  and  people  seeing  each  other  home.  After  tea 
he  settled  back  easily  in  his  chair  and  went  on  with  his 
stories.  Miriam  found  it  almost  impossible  to  follow  him. 
She  grew  weary  of  his  bantering  tone.  It  smeared  over 
everything  he  touched  and  made  him  appear  to  be  saying 
one  thing  over  and  over  again  in  innuendo.  Something  he 
could  not  say  out  and  would  never  get  away  from.  He 
made  little  pauses  and  then  it  gleamed  horribly  about  all  his 
refinement  of  dress  and  bearing  and  Gerald  laughed  encour- 
agingly and  he  went  on,  making  a  story  that  was  like  a 


THE   TUNNEL  29 

play,  that  looked  like  life  did  when  you  looked  at  it,  a  mad- 
dening fussiness  about  nothing  and  people  getting  into  states 
of  mind.  He  went  on  into  a  story  about  business  life  .  .  . 
people  getting  the  better  of  each  other.  It  made  her  feel 
sick  with  apprehension.  Anybody  in  business  might  be 
ruined  any  minute  unless  he  could  be  sure  of  getting  the 
better  of  someone  else.  She  had  never  realised  that  before. 
...  It  pressed  on  her  breathing  and  made  her  feel  that  she 
had  had  too  much  tea.  .  .  .  She  hated  the  exponent  sitting 
there  so  coolly.  It  made  the  cool  green-lit  afternoon  room 
an  island  amongst  horrors.  But  it  was  that  to  him  too  .  .  . 
he  felt  the  need  of  something  beyond  the  everlasting  innu- 
endo of  social  life  and  the  everlasting  smartness  of  business 
life.  She  felt  it  was  true  that  he  spent  Sunday  mornings 
picking  out  hymn  tunes  with  one  finger  and  liked  "  Sabbath 
music  "  and  remembered  the  things  his  mother  used  to  play 
to  him.  He  wanted  a  home,  something  away  from  business 
life  and  away  from  social  life.  He  saw  her  as  a  woman  in  a 
home,  nicely  dressed  in  a  quiet  drawing  room,  lit  by  softly 
screened  clear  fresh  garden  daylight.  ..."  Business  is  busi- 
ness." ..."  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart — 'tis 
woman's  whole  existence."  Byron  did  not  know  what 
he  was  saying  when  he  wrote  it  in  his  calm  patronising  way. 
Mr.  Tremayne  would  admire  it  as  a  "  great  truth  " —  think- 
ing it  like  a  man  in  the  way  Byron  thought  it.  What  a 
hopeless  thing  a  man's  consciousness-  was.  How  awful  to 
have  nothing  but  a  man's  consciousness.  One  could  test  it 
so  easily  if  one  were  a  little  careful,  and  know  exactly  how 
it  would  behave.  .  .  . 

Opening  a  volume  of  Mendelssohn  she  played  from  his 
point  of  view  one  of  the  Songs  without  Words  quietly  into 
the  conversation.  The  room  grew  still.  She  felt  herself 
and  Mr.  Tremayne  as  duplicates  of  Harriett  and  Gerald  only 
that  she  was  a  very  religious  very  womanly  woman,  the  ideal 


30  THE   TUNNEL 

wife  and  mother  and  he  was  a  bad  fast  man  who  wanted  to 
be  saved.  It  was  such  an  easy  part  to  play.  She  could  go 
on  playing  it  to  the  end  of  her  life,  if  he  went  on  in  business 
and  made  enough  money,  being  a  "gracious  silence,"  taking 
an  interest  in  his  affairs,  ordering  all  things  well,  quietly 
training  the  servants,  never  losing  her  temper  or  raising  her 
voice,  making  the  home  a  sanctuary  of  rest  and  refreshment 
and  religious  aspiration,  going  to  church.  .  .  .  She  felt  all 
these  things  expressing  themselves  in  her  bearing.  At  the 
end  of  her  piece  she  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  look  of 
adoration  in  his  eyes,  the  innocent  youthfulness  shining 
through  his  face.  There  was  something  in  him  she  could 
have  and  guard  and  keep  if  she  chose.  Something  that 
would  die  if  there  were  no  woman  to  keep  it  there.  There 
was  nothing  in  his  life  of  business  and  music  halls  to  keep  it 
there,  nothing  but  the  memory  of  his  mother  and  he  joined 
her  on  to  that  memory.  His  mother  and  his  wife  were 
sacred  .  .  .  apart  from  life.  But  he  could  not  be  really 
happy  with  a  woman  unless  he  could  also  despise  her.  Any 
interest  in  generalities,  any  argument  or  criticism  or  opposi- 
tion would  turn  him  into  a  towering  bully.  All  men  were 
like  that  in  some  way.  They  each  had  a  set  of  notions  and 
fought  with  each  other  about  them  whenever  they  were  to- 
gether and  not  eating  or  drinking.  If  a  woman  opposed 
them  they  went  mad.  He  would  like  one  or  two  more  Men- 
delssohns  and  then  supper.  And  if  she  kept  out  of  the  con- 
versation and  listened  and  smiled  a  little  he  would  go  away 
adoring.  She  played  the  Duetto;  the  chords  made  her  think 
of  Beethoven  and  play  the  last  page  carelessly  and  glance  at 
Harriett.  Harriett  had  felt  her  response  to  the  chords  and 
knew  she  was  getting  away  from  Mendelssohn.  Mr.  Tre- 
mayne  had  moved  to  a  chair  quite  close  to  the  piano,  just 
behind  her.  She  found  the  Beethoven  and  played  the  first 
movement  of  a  sonata.     It  leapt  about  the  piano  breaking 


THE   TUNNEL  31 

up  her  pose,  using  her  body  as  the  instrument  of  its  gay 
wild  shapeliness,  spreading  her  arms  inelegantly,  swaying 
her,  lifting  her  from  the  stool  with  the  crash  and  vibration 
of  its  chords.  ..."  Go  on  "  said  Harriett  when  it  came  to 
an  end.  The  Largo  came  with  a  single  voice  deep  and 
broad  and  quiet;  the  great  truth  behind  the  fuss  of  things. 
She  felt  her  hearers  grow  weary  of  its  reiterations  and 
dashed  on  alone  recklessly  into  the  storm  of  the  last  move- 
ment. Through  its  tuneless  raging  she  could  hear  the  steady 
voice  and  see  the  steady  shining  of  the  broad  clear  light. 
Daylight  and  gaiety  and  night  and  storm  and  a  great  song 
and  truth,  the  great  truth  that  was  bigger  than  anything. 
Beethoven.  She  got  up,  charged  to  the  fingertips  with  a 
glow  that  transfigured  all  the  inanimate  things  in  the  room. 
The  party  was  wrecked  ...  a  young  lady  who  banged  the 
piano  till  her  hair  nearly  came  down.  ...  Mr.  Tremayne 
had  heard  nothing  but  noise.  .  .  .  His  eyes  smiled  and  his 
uneasy  mouth  felt  for  compliments. 


"  Why  didn't  you  ask  him  to  supper  La  Fee?  " 

"  The  Bollingdons  are  coming  round,  silly." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  With  one  small  chicken  and  a  blancmange." 

"  Heaven  help  us." 

When  they  sat  down  to  play  halfpenny  nap  after  supper 
Miriam  recovered  her  cigarette  from  its  hiding  place.  She 
did  not  know  the  game.  She  sat  at  Harriett's  new  card- 
table  wrapped  in  the  unbroken  jesting  of  the  Bollingdons 
and  the  Ducaynes,  happily  learning  and  smoking  and  feeling 
happily  wicked.  The  Bollingdons  taught  her  simply  with 
a  complete  trustful  friendliness,  Mrs.  Bollingdon  leaning 
across  in  her  pink  satin  blouse,  her  clear  clean  bulging 
cheeks  and  dark  velvet  hair  like  a  full  blown  dark  rose. 


32  THE    TUNNEL 

Between  the  rounds  they  poured  out  anecdotes  of  earlier 
nap  parties,  all  talking  at  once.  The  pauses  at  the  fresh 
beginnings  were  full  of  the  echoes  of  their  laughter.  Miriam 
in  the  character  of  the  Honourahle  Miss  Henderson  had 
just  accepted  Lord  Bollingdon's  invitation  to  join  the  Duke 
and  Duchess  of  Ducayne  and  himself  and  Lady  Bollingdon 
in  an  all-day  party  to  Wembley  Park  in  a  break  and  four  on 
Easter  Monday  and  had  lit  a  second  cigarette  and  accepted 
a  small  whisky  and  soda  when  Mr.  Grove  was  announced. 
Harriett's  face  flushed  jocular  consternation. 

When  the  party  subsided  after  Mr.  Grove's  spasmodic 
handshakings  Miriam  got  herself  into  a  chair  in  a  far  corner, 
smoking  her  cigarette  with  burning  cheeks.  Sitting  isolated 
with  her  cigarette  and  her  whisky  while  he  twice  sent  his 
low  harsh  clearly  murmuring  voice  into  the  suddenly  empty 
air  to  say  that  he  had  been  to  evensong  at  the  Carmelites 
and  was  on  his  way  home,  she  examined  the  relief  of  his 
presence  and  the  nature  of  her  farewell.  Mr.  Bollingdon 
responded  to  him  remarking  each  time  on  the  splendour  of 
the  evening. 

3 

Strolling  home  towards  midnight  along  the  narrow  pave- 
ment of  Endsleigh  Gardens  Miriam  felt  as  fresh  and  un- 
troubled as  if  it  were  early  morning.  When  she  had  got 
out  of  her  Hammersmith  omnibus  into  the  Tottenham  Court 
Road  she  had  found  that  the  street  had  lost  its  first  terrify- 
ing impression  and  had  become  part  of  her  home.  It  was 
the  borderland  of  the  part  of  London  she  had  found  for 
herself;  the  part  where  she  was  going  to  live,  in  freedom, 
hidden,  on  her  pound  a  week.  It  was  all  she  wanted.  That 
was  why  she  was  young  and  glad ;  that  was  why  fatigue  had 
gone  out  of  her  life.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  that 
could  come  nearer  to  her  than  the  curious  half  twilight  half 


THE   TUNNEL  33 

moonlight  effect  of  lamplit  Endsleigh  Gardens  opening  out 
of  Gower  Place ;  its  huge  high  trees,  their  sharp  shadows 
on  the  little  pavement  running  by  the  side  of  the  railings, 
the  neighbouring  gloom  of  the  Euston  Road  dimly  lit  by 
lamps  standing  high  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway  at  long 
intervals,  the  great  high  quiet  porched  houses,  black  and 
still,  the  shadow  mass  of  St.  Pancras  church,  the  great  dark 
open  space  in  front  of  the  church,  a  shadowy  figure-haunted 
darkness  with  the  vague  stream  of  the  Euston  Road  running 
to  one  side  of  it  and  the  corridor  of  Woburn  Place  opening 
on  the  other.  The  harsh  voice  of  an  invisible  woman 
sounded  out  from  it  as  she  turned  off  into  her  own  street. 
..."  Dressed  up  —  he  was  —  to  the  bloody  death."  .  .  . 
The  words  echoed  about  her  as  she  strolled  down  the  street 
controlling  her  impulse  to  flinch  and  hurry.  The  woman 
was  there,  there  and  real  and  that  was  what  she  had  said. 
Resentment  was  lurking  about  the  street.  The  woman's 
harsh  voice  seemed  close.  Miriam  pictured  her  glaring 
eyes.  There  was  no  pretence  about  her.  She  felt  what  she 
said.  She  belonged  to  the  darkness  about  St.  Pancras 
church  .  .  .  people  had  been  garrotted  in  that  part  of  the 
Euston  Road  not  so  very  long  ago.  .  .  .  Tansley  Street  was 
a  soft  grey  gloaming  after  the  darkness.  When  she  rattled 
her  key  into  the  keyhole  of  number  seven  she  felt  that  her 
day  was  beginning.  It  would  be  perpetually  beginning  now. 
Nights  and  days  were  all  one  day;  all  hers,  unlimited. 
Her  life  and  work  at  Wimpole  Street  were  something  extra, 
thrown  in  with  her  own  life  of  endless  day.  Sarah  and 
Harriett,  their  lives  and  friends,  her  own  friends,  the 
Brooms,  the  girls  in  Kennett  Street,  all  thrown  in.  She  lit 
her  table  lamp  and  the  gas  and  two  candles,  making  her 
little  brown  room  brilliant  under  a  brilliant  white  ceiling  and 
sat  down  eager  to  tell  someone  of  her  wealth  and  freedom. 


34  THETUNNEL 

4 

Someone  must  know  she  was  in  London,  free,  earning  her 
own  living.  Lilla?  She  would  not  see  the  extraordinary 
freedom:  earning  would  seem  strange  and  dreadful  to  her 
.  .  .  someone  who  would  understand  the  extraordinary  free- 
dom  Alma.  Alma!  Setting  forth  the  London  ad- 
dress in  a  heavy  careless  hand  at  the  head  of  a  postcard 
slu-  wrote  from  the  midst  of  her  seventeenth  year,  "  Dear 
A.     Where  are  you?  " 

Walking  home  along  the  Upper  Richmond  Road ;  not 
liking  to  buy  sweets ;  not  enjoying  anything  to  the  full  — 
always  afraid  of  her  refinements ;  always  in  a  way  wanting 
to  be  like  her;  wanting  to  share  her  mysterious  knowledge 
of  how  things  were  done  in  the  world  and  the  things  one 
had  to  do  to  get  on  in  some  clever  world  where  people 
were  doing  things.  Never  really  wanting  it  because  the 
mere  thought  of  that  would  take  the  beauty  of  the  syringa 
and  make  it  look  sad.  Never  being  able  to  explain  why  one 
did  not  want  to  do  reasonable  clever  things  in  a  clever  brisk 
reasonable  way ;  why  one  disliked  the  way  she  went  behav- 
ing up  and  down  the  Upper  Richmond  Road  with  her  pretty 
neat  brisk  bustling  sidling  walk,  keeping  her  secret  with  a 
sort  of  prickly  brightness.  The  Upper  Richmond  Road  was 
heaven,  pure  heaven  ;  smelling  of  syringa.  She  liked  flowers 
but  she  did  not  seem  to  know.  .  .  .  Syringa.  I  had  forgot- 
ten. That  is  one  of  the  things  I  have  always  wanted  to 
stop  and  remember.  .  .  .  What  was  it  all  about?  What 
was  she  doing  now?  Anyhow  the  London  post-card  would 
be  an  answer.  A  letter,  making  her  see  Germany  and  bits 
of  Newlands  and  what  life  was  now  would  answer  every- 
thing, all  her  snubs  and  cleverness  and  bring  back  the  Upper 


THE   TUNNEL  35 

Richmond  Road  and  make  it  beautiful.  She  will  know 
something  of  what  it  was  to  me  then.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
she  liked  me  even  though  she  thought  me  vulgar  and  very 
lazy  and  stupid. 


CHAPTER    III 


THERE  was  a  carriage  at  the  door.  West-end  people, 
after  late  nights,  managing  to  keep  nine  o'clock  ap- 
pointments—  in  a  north  wind.  Miriam  pressed  the  bell 
urgently.  The  scrubbed  chalky  mosaic  and  the  busy  bright 
brass  plate  reproached  her  for  her  lateness  during  the  long 
moment  before  the  door  was  opened.  ...  It  must  be  some- 
one for  Mr.  Orly;  an  appointment  made  since  last  night; 
that  was  the  worst  of  his  living  in  the  house.  He  was  in 
his  surgery  now,  with  the  patient.  The  nine-fifteen  patient 
would  come  almost  at  once.  He  would  discover  that  his 
charts  were  not  out  before  there  was  any  chance  of  getting 
at  his  appointment  book.  ...  As  the  great  door  swung  open 
she  saw  Mr.  Hancock  turn  the  corner  of  the  street  walking 
very  rapidly  before  the  north  wind.  .  .  .  Mr.  Orly's  voice 
was  sounding  impatiently  from  the  back  of  the  hall.  .  .  . 
"  Where's  Miss  Hends.  .  .  .  Oh  —  here  y'are  Miss  Hends, 
I  say  call  up  Chalk  for  me  will  ya,  get  him  to  come  at  once, 
I've  got  the  patient  waiting."  His  huge  frock-coated  form 
swung  round  into  his  surgery  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 
Miriam  scurried  through  the  hall  past  Mr.  Leyton's  open 
surgery  door  and  into  her  room.  Mr.  Leyton  plunged  out 
of  his  room  as  she  was  flinging  down  her  things  and  came  in 
briskly.  "  Morning,  Pater  got  a  gas  case  ?  " 
"  Mm  " ;  said  Miriam.  "  I've  got  to  call  up  Chalk  and  I 
haven't  a  second  to  do  it." 
"  Why  Chalk  ?  " 

26 


THE    TUNNEL  37 

"  Oh  I  don't  know.  He  said  Chalk  "  said  Miriam  angrily, 
seizing  the  directory. 

"  I'll  call  him  up  if  you  like." 

"  You  are  a  saint.  Tell  him  to  come  at  once  —  sooner," 
said  Miriam  dabbing  at  her  hair  as  she  ran  back  through 
the  hall  and  upstairs.  As  she  passed  the  turn  of  the  stair- 
case Mr.  Hancock  was  let  in  at  the  front  door.  She  found 
his  kettle  furiously  boiling  on  its  wrought-iron  stand  near 
the  chair.  The  stained  glass  window  just  behind  it  was  dim 
with  steam.  She  lowered  the  gas,  put  a  tumbler  in  the 
socket  of  the  spittoon,  lit  the  gas  burner  on  the  bracket 
table  and  swiftly  pulled  open  its  drawers  one  by  one.  The 
instruments  were  all  right  .  .  .  the  bottles  —  no  chloro- 
form, the  carbolic  bottle  nearly  empty  and  its  label  soaked 
and  defaced.  Gathering  the  two  bottles  in  her  hand  she 
turned  to  the  instrument  cabinet,  no  serviettes,  no  rubber 
dam,  clamps  not  up  from  the  workshop.  The  top  of  the 
cabinet  still  to  be  dusted.  Dust  and  scraps  of  amalgam 
were  visible  about  the  surfaces  of  the  paper  lining  the  instru- 
ment drawers.  No  saliva  tubes  in  the  basin.  She  swung 
round  to  the  bureau  and  hurriedly  read  through  the  names  of 
the  morning's  patients.  Mr.  Hancock  came  quietly  in  as 
she  was  dusting  the  top  of  the  instrument  cabinet  by  pushing 
the  boxes  and  bottles  of  materials  that  littered  its  surface  to 
the  backmost  edge.  They  were  all  lightly  coated  with  dust. 
It  was  everlasting  and  the  long  tubes  and  metal  body  of  the 
little  furnace  were  dull  again.  "  Good  morning,"  they  said 
simultaneously,  in  even  tones.  There  were  sounds  of  letters 
being  opened  and  the  turning  of  the  pages  of  the  appoint- 
ment book.  The  chain  of  Mr.  Hancock's  gold  pencil  case 
rattled  softly  as  he  made  notes  on  the  corners  of  the  letters. 

"  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  week-end  ?  " 

"  Very  "  said  Miriam  emphatically. 

There  was  a  squeak  at  the  side  of  the  cabinet.     "  Yes  " 

118574 


38  THE    TUNNEL 

said  Miriam  down  the  speaking  tube.  ..."  Thank  you. 
Will  you  please  bring  up  some  tubes  and  serviettes." 

"  Mr.  Wontner." 

"  Thank  you."  ..."  Mrs.  Hermann  is  '  frightfully 
shocked  '  at  the  amount  of  her  account.  What  did  we  send 
it  in  for?1" 

"  Seventy  guineas.  It's  a  reduction,  and  it's  two  years' 
work  for  the  whole  family."  The  bell  sounded  again.  .  .  . 
"  Lady  Cazalet  has  bad  toothache  and  can  you  see  her  at 
once." 

"  Confound.  .  .  .  Will  you  go  down  and  talk  to  her  and 
see  if  you  can  get  one  of  the  others  to  see  her." 

"  She  won't." 

"  Well  then  she  must  wait.  I'll  have  Mr.  Wontner  up." 
Miriam  rang.  Mr.  Hancock  began  busily  washing  his 
hands.  The  patient  came  in.  He  greeted  him  over  his 
shoulder.  Miriam  gathered  up  the  sheaf  of  annotated 
letters  and  the  appointment  book  and  ran  down-stairs. 
"Has  Mr.  Leyton  a  patient  Emma?"  "Miss  Jones  just 
gone  in,  Miss."  "  Oh,  Emma,  will  you  ask  the  workshop 
for  Mr.  Hancock's  rubber  and  clamps?  "  She  rang  through 
to  Mr.  Leyton's  room.  "  There's  a  patient  of  Mr.  Han- 
cock's in  pain,  can  you  see  them  if  I  can  persuade  them?" 
she  murmured.  "  Right,  in  ten  minutes  "  came  the  answer- 
ing murmur.  Mr.  Hancock's  bell  sounded  from  her  room. 
She  went  to  his  tube  in  the  hall.  "  Can  I  have  my  charts?  " 
Running  into  her  room  she  hunted  out  the  first  chart  from 
a  case  full  and  ran  upstairs  with  it.  Mr.  Hancock's  patient 
was  sitting  forward  in  the  chair  urging  the  adoption  of  the 
decimal  system.  Running  down  again  she  went  into  the 
waiting  room.  The  dark  Turkey  carpeted  oak  furnished 
length  seemed  full  of  seated  forms.  Miriam  peered  and 
Lady  Cazalet,  with  her  hat  already  off  rose  from  the  deep 
arm-chair  at  her  side.     "Can  he  see  me?"  she  said  in  a 


THE   TUNNEL  39 

clear  trembling  undertone,  her  dark  eyes  wide  upon 
Miriam's.  Miriam  gazed  deep  into  the  limpid  fear.  What 
a  privilege.  How  often  Captain  Cazalet  must  be  beside 
himself  with  unworthiness.  "  Yes,  if  you  can  wait  a  little  " 
she  said  dropping  her  eyes  and  standing  with  arms  re- 
strained. "  I  think  it  won't  be  very  long  "  she  added  lin- 
gering a  moment  as  the  little  form  relapsed  into  the  chair. 

"  Lady  Cazalet  will  wait  until  you  can  see  her  "  she  tubed 
up  to  Mr.  Hancock. 

"  Can't  you  make  her  see  one  of  the  others  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  impossible ;  I'll  tell  you  later." 

"  Well  I'll  see  her  as  soon  as  I  can.  I'm  afraid  she'll 
have  to  wait." 

Miriam  went  back  to  her  room  to  sort  out  the  remaining 
charts.  On  her  table  lay  a  broken  denture  in  a  faded  mo- 
rocco case ;  a  strip  of  paper  directed  "  five-thirty  sharp  "  in 
Mr.  Orly's  handwriting.  Mr.  Leyton's  door  burst  open. 
He  came  with  flying  coat-tails. 

"  Vi  got  to  see  that  patient  of  Mr.  Hancock's  "  he  asked 
breathlessly. 

"  No  "  said  Miriam  "  she  won't." 

"  Right "  he  said  swinging  back.  "  I'll  keep  Miss  Jones 
on." 

Mr.  Hancock's  bell  sounded  again.  Miriam  flew  to  the 
tube. 

"  My  clamps  please." 

"  Oh  yes  "  she  answered  shocked,  and  hurried  back  to 
her  room. 

Gathering  up  the  broken  denture  she  ran  down  the  stone 
steps  leading  to  the  basement.  Her  cheap  unyielding  shoes 
clattered  on  the  unyielding  stones.  The  gas  was  on  in  the 
lunch  room,  Mrs.  Willis  scrubbing  the  floor.  The  voices  of 
the  servants  came  from  the  kitchens  in  the  unknown  back- 
ground.    She  passed  the  lunch  room  and  the  cellar  and 


4o  T  II  E   TUNNEL 

clamped  on  across  the  stone  hall  to  the  open  door  of  the 
workshop. 


\\  inthrop  was  standing  at  the  small  furnace  in  the  box- 
lined  passage  way.  It  was  roaring  its  loudest.  Through  its 
open  door  the  red  light  fell  sharply  on  his  pink-Mushed 
face  and  drooping  fair  moustache  and  poured  down  over 
his  white  apron.  "  Good  ph-morning  "  he  said  pleasantly, 
his  eye  on  the  heart  of  the  furnace,  his  foot  briskly  pump- 
ing the  blower.  From  the  body  of  the  room  came  sounds 
of  tapping  and  whistling  .  .  .  the  noise  of  the  furnace  pre- 
vented their  knowing  that  anyone  had  come  in.  .  .  .  Miriam 
drew  near  to  the  furnace,  relieved  at  the  shortness  of  her 
excursion.  She  stared  at  the  tiny  shape  blazing  red-gold 
at  the  heart  of  the  glare.  Winthrop  gathered  up  a  pair  of 
tongs  and  drew  the  mould  from  the  little  square  of  light. 
The  air  hissed  from  the  bellows  and  the  roaring  of  the  flames 
died  down.  In  a  moment  he  was  standing  free  with  hot 
face  and  hot  patient  ironic  eyes,  gently  taking  the  denture 
from  her  hands.  "  Good  morning  "  said  Miriam,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Winthrop,  it's  a  repair  for  Mr.  Orly.  It's  urgent.  Can 
you  manage  it  ?  "  "  It's  ph  —  ph  —  sure  to  be  urgent  "  said 
Winthrop  examining  the  denture  with  a  short-sighted  frown. 
Miriam  waited  anxiously.  The  hammering  and  whistling 
had  ceased.  "  It'll  be  all  right,  Miss  Ph-Henderson  "  said 
Winthrop  encouragingly.  She  turned  to  the  door.  The 
clamps.  .  .  .  Gathering  herself  together  she  went  down  the 
passage  and  stood  at  the  head  of  the  two  stone  steps  leading 
down  into  the  body  of  the  room.  A  swift  scrubbing  of 
emery  paper  on  metal  was  going  on  at  the  end  of  the  long 
bench,  lit  by  a  long  sky-light,  from  which  the  four  faces 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  chorus  of  good  mornings  in  response 
to  her  greeting.     "  Are  Mr.  Hancock's  clamps  ready?"  she 


THE   TUNNEL  41 

asked  diffidently.  "Jimmy  .  .  ."  The  figure  nearest  to 
her  glanced  down  the  row  of  seated  forms.  The  small 
bullet-headed  boy  at  the  end  of  the  bench  scrubbed  vigor- 
ously and  ironically  with  his  emery  stick.  "  He  won't  be  a 
minute,  Miss  Henderson  "  said  the  near  pupil  comfortingly. 

Miriam  observed  his  spruce  grey  suit  curiously  masked 
by  the  mechanic's  apron,  the  quiet  controlled  amused  face, 
and  felt  the  burden  of  her  little  attack  as  part  of  the  patient 
prolonged  boredom  of  his  pupillage.  The  second  pupil, 
sitting  next  to  him  kept  dog-like  sympathetic  eyes  on  her 
face,  waiting  for  a  glance.  She  passed  him  by,  smiling 
gently  in  response  without  looking  at  him  while  her  eyes 
rested  upon  the  form  of  the  junior  mechanic  whose  head 
was  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  scrubbing  boy.  The  head 
was  refined,  thin  and  clear  cut,  thatched  with  glossy  curls. 
Its  expression  was  servile  —  the  brain  eagerly  seeking  some 
flowery  phrase  —  something  to  decorate  at  once  the  occasion 
and  the  speaker,  and  to  give  relief  to  the  mouth  strained  in 
an  arrested  obsequious  smile.  Nothing  came  and  the  clever 
meticulous  hands  were  idle  on  the  board.  It  seemed  absurd 
to  say  that  Mr.  Hancock  was  waiting  for  the  clamps  while 
Jimmy  was  scrubbing  so  busily.  But  they  had  obviously 
been  forgotten.     She  fidgeted. 

"  Will  somebody  send  them  up  when  they're  done?  " 

"  Jimmy,  you're  a  miserable  sinner,  hurry  up  "  said  the 
senior  pupil. 

"  They're  done  "  said  Jimmy  in  a  cracked  bass  voice. 
"  Thank  goodness "  breathed  Miriam,  dimpling.  Jimmy 
came  round  and  scattered  the  clamps  carefully  into  her 
outstretched  hand,  with  down-cast  eyes  and  a  crisp  dimpling 
smile. 

"  Rule  Britannia,"  remarked  the  junior  pupil,  resuming 
his  work  as  Miriam  turned  away  and  hurried  along  the 
passage  and  through  the  door  held  open  for  her  by  Win- 


42  THE   TUNNEL 

throp.  She  flew  up  to  Mr.  Hancock's  room  three  steps  at  a 
time,  tapped  gently  at  the  door  and  went  in.  He  came  for- 
ward across  the  soft  grey  green  carpet  to  take  the  clamps 
and  murmured  gently  "  Have  you  got  my  carbolic?  " 

3 

Miriam  looked  out  the  remainder  of  the  charts  and  went 
anxiously  through  the  little  pile  of  letters  she  had  brought 
down  from  Mr.  Hancock's  room.  All  but  three  were 
straight-forward  appointments  to  be  sent.  One  bore  besides 
the  pencilled  day  and  date  the  word  "  Tape "...  she 
glanced  through  it  —  it  was  from  a  University  settlement 
worker,  asking  for  an  appointment  for  the  filling  of  two 
front  teeth.  .  .  .  She  would  understand  increasing  by  one 
thickness  per  day  until  there  were  five,  to  be  completed  two 
days  before  the  appointment  falls  due  so  that  any  tenderness 
may  have  passed  off.  Mrs.  Herman's  letter  bore 
no  mark.  She  could  make  a  rough  summary  in 
Mr.  Hancock's  phraseology.  The  third  letter  enclosed  a 
printed  card  of  appointment  with  Mr.  Hancock  which  she 
had  sent  without  filling  in  the  day  and  hour.  She  flushed. 
Mr.  Hancock  had  pencilled  in  the  missing  words.  Gather- 
ing the  letters  together  she  put  them  as  far  away  as  her  hand 
would  reach,  leaving  a  space  of  shabby  ink-stained  morocco 
clear  under  her  hands.  She  looked  blindly  out  of  the  win- 
dow ;  hand-painted,  they  are  hand-painted,  forget-me-nots 
and  gold  tendrils  softly  painted,  not  shining,  on  an  unusual 
shape,  a  merry  Christmas.  Melly  Klismas.  In  this  coun- 
tree  heapee  lain,  chiney  man  lun  home  again,  under  a  red 
and  green  paper  umbrella  in  the  pouring  rain,  that  was  not 
a  hand-painted  one,  but  better,  in  some  strange  way,  close 
bright  colours  drawing  everything  in;  a  shock.  I  stayed  in 
there.  There  was  something.  Chinee  man  lun  home  again. 
Her  eye  roamed  over  the  table;  everything  but  the  newly- 


THE   TUNNEL  43 

arrived  letters  shabby  under  the  high  wide  uncurtained  win- 
dow. The  table  fitted  the  width  of  the  window.  There  was 
something  to  be  done  before  anything  could  be  done.  Every- 
thing would  look  different  if  something  were  done.  The 
fresh  letters  could  lie  neatly  on  the  centre  of  the  table  in  the 
midst  of  something.  They  were  on  the  address  books, 
spoiled  by  them.  It  would  take  years  to  check  the  addresses 
one  by  one  till  the  old  books  could  be  put  away.  If  the  day 
books  were  entered  up  to  date,  there  would  still  be  those, 
disfiguring  everything.  If  everything  were  absolutely  up  to 
date,  and  all  the  cupboards  in  perfect  order  and  the  discounts 
and  decimals  always  done  in  the  depot-books  to  time  there 
would  be  time  to  do  something.  She  replaced  the  letters  in 
the  centre  of  the  table  and  put  them  back  again  on  the  ad- 
dress books.  His  nine- forty-five  patient  was  being  let  in  at 
the  front  door.  In  a  moment  his  bell  would  ring  and  some- 
thing must  be  said  about  the  appointment  card.  "  Mr. 
Orly  ?  "  A  big  booming  elderly  voice,  going  on  heavily  mur- 
muring into  the  waiting-room.  She  listened  tensely  to  the 
movements  of  the  servant.  Was  Mr.  Orly  in  "  the  den  "  or 
in  his  surgery  ?  She  heard  the  maid  ring  through  to  the  sur- 
gery and  wait.  No  sound.  The  maid  came  through  her 
room  and  tapped  at  the  door  leading  from  it.  Come  in  sang  a 
voice  from  within  and  Miriam  heard  the  sound  of  a  hammer 
on  metal  as  the  maid  opened  the  door.  She  flew  to  the 
surgery.  Amidst  the  stillness  of  heavy  oak  furniture  and 
dark  Turkey  carpet  floated  the  confirming  smell.  There 
it  was  all  about  the  spittoon  and  the  red  velvet  covered 
chair  and  the  bracket  table,  a  horrible  confusion — and  blood 
stains,  blood  blotted  serviettes,  forceps  that  made  her  feel 
sick  and  faint.  Summoning  up  her  strength  she  gathered 
up  the  serviettes  and  flung  them  into  a  basket  behind  the 
instrument  cabinet.  She  was  dabbing  at  .the  stains  on  the 
American  cloth  cover  of  the  bracket  when  Mr.  Orly  came 


44  THE    TUNNEL 

swinging  in,  putting  on  his  grey  frock-coat  and  humming 
(  kffiga  Din  as  he  came.  "  Regular  field  day  "  he  said  cheer- 
fully. "  I  shan't  want  those  things — just  pop  'em  out  of 
sight."  He  turned  up  the  cupboard  gas  and  in  a  moment 
a  stream  of  boiling  water  hissed  down  into  the  basin  filling 
the  room  with  steam.  "  I  say,  has  this  man  got  a  chart? 
Don't  throw  away  those  teeth.  Just  look  at  this — how's 
that  for  twisted?  Just  look  here."  He  took  up  an  object 
to  which  Miriam  forced  reluctant  eyes,  grotesquely  formed 
fangs  protruding  from  the  enclosing  blades  of  a  huge  for- 
ceps. "How's  that  eh?"  Miriam  made  a  sympathetic 
sound.  Gathering  the  many  forceps  he  detached  their  con- 
tents putting  the  relic  into  a  bottle  of  spirit  and  the  rest  into 
the  hidden  basket.  The  forceps  went  head  first  into  a  jar 
of  carbolic  and  Miriam  breathed  more  freely.  "  I'll  see  to 
those.  I  say  has  this  man  got  a  chart?"  "I'll  see"  said 
Miriam  eagerly  making  off  with  the  appointment  book.  She 
returned  with  the  chart.  Mr.  Orly  hummed  and  looked. 
"  Right.  Tell  'em  to  send  him  in.  I  say,  vi  got  any  gold 
and  tin?"  Miriam  consulted  the  box  in  a  drawer  in  the 
cabinet.  It  was  empty.  "  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  "  she  said 
guiltily.  "  All  right,  I'll  let  y'know.  Send  'im  in,"  and 
he  resumed  Gunga  Din  over  the  washhand  basin.  Mr.  Han- 
cock's bell  was  ringing  in  her  room  and  she  hurried  off  with 
a  sign  to  the  little  maid  waiting  with  raised  eyebrows  in  the 
hall.  Darting  into  her  room  she  took  the  foils  from  the  safe, 
laid  them  on  a  clean  serviette  amongst  the  litter  on  her  table 
and  ran  upstairs.  Mr.  Leyton  opened  his  door  as  she  passed 
"  I  say,  can  you  feed  for  me  "  he  asked  breathlessly,  putting 
out  an  anxious  head.  "  I'll  come  down  in  a  minute,"  prom- 
ised Miriam  from  the  stairs.  Mr.  Hancock  was  drying  his 
hands.  He  sounded  his  bell  as  she  came  in.  The  maid  an- 
swered. "  I'm  so  sorry  "  began  Miriam.  "  Show  up  Mr. 
Green  "  said  Mr.  Hancock  down  the  speaking  tube.     "  You 


THE   TUNNEL  45 

remember  there's  Lady  Cazalet  ?  "  said  Miriam  relieved  and 
feeling  she  was  making  good  her  carelessness  in  the  matter 
of  the  appointment  card. 

"  Oh  confound."  He  rang  again  hurriedly.  "  Show  up 
Lady  Cazalet."  Miriam  swept  from  the  bracket  table  the 
litter  of  used  instruments  and  materials,  disposing  them 
rapidly  on  the  cabinet,  into  the  sterilising  tray,  the  waste 
basket  and  the  wash-hand  basin,  tore  the  uppermost  leaf 
from  the  headrest  pad,  and  detached  the  handpiece  from  the 
arm  of  the  motor  drill  while  the  patient  was  being  shown 
upstairs.  Mr.  Hancock  had  cleared  the  spittoon,  set  a  fresh 
tumbler,  filled  the  kettle  and  whisked  the  debris  of  amalgam 
and  cement  from  the  bracket  table  before  he  began  the 
scrubbing  and  cleansing  of  his  hands,  and  when  the  patient 
came  in  Miriam  was  in  her  corner  reluctantly  handling  the 
instruments,  wet  with  the  solution  that  crinkled  her  finger- 
tips and  made  her  skin  brittle  and  dry.  Everything  was  in 
its  worst  state.  The  business  of  drying  and  cleansing,  free- 
ing fine  points  from  minute  closely  adhering  fragments, 
polishing  instruments  on  the  leather  pad,  repolishing  them 
with  the  leather,  scraping  the  many  little  burs  with  the  fine 
wire  brush,  scraping  the  clamps,  clearing  the  obstinate 
amalgam  from  slab  and  spatula,  brought  across  her  the  ever- 
recurring  circle.  The  things  were  begun,  they  were  getting 
on,  she  had  half-done  .  .  .  the  exasperating  tediousness  of 
holding  herself  to  the  long  series  of  tiny  careful  attention- 
demanding  movements  .  .  .  the  punctual  emergence  when 
the  end  was  in  sight  of  the  hovering  reflection,  nagging  and 
questioning,  that  another  set  of  things  was  already  getting 
ready  for  another  cleansing  process ;  the  endless  series  to 
last  as  long  as  she  stayed  at  Wimpole  Street  .  .  .  were 
there  any  sort  of  people  who  could  do  this  kind  of  thing 
patiently,  without  minding?  .  .  .  the  evolution  of  dentistry 
was  wonderful,  but  the  more  perfect  it  became  the  more 


46  THETUNNEL 

and  more  of  this  sort  of  thing  there  would  be  .  .  .  the  more 
drudgery  workers,  at  fixed  salaries  ...  it  was  only  possible 
for  people  who  were  fine  and  nice  .  .  .  there  must  be,  every- 
where, women  doing  this  work  for  people  who  were  not  nice. 
They  could  not  do  it  for  the  work's  sake.  Did  some  of  them 
do  it  cheerfully,  as  unto  God.  It  was  wrong  to  work  unto 
man.  But  could  God  approve  of  this  kind  of  thing  .  .  . 
was  it  right  to  spend  life  cleaning  instruments  .  .  .  the  blank 
moment  again  of  gazing  about  in  vain  for  an  alternative  .  .  . 
all  work  has  drudgery.  That  is  not  the  answer.  .  .  . 
Blessed  be  Drudgery,  but  that  was  housekeeping,  not  some- 
one else's  drudgery.  ...  As  she  put  the  things  back  in  the 
drawers,  every  drawer  offered  tasks  of  tidying,  replenishing, 
and  repapering  of  small  boxes  and  grooves  and  sections. 
She  had  remembered  to  bring  up  Lady  Cazalet's  chart.  It 
looked  at  her  propped  against  the  small  furnace.  Behind 
it  were  the  other  charts  for  the  day  complete.  The  drug 
bottles  were  full,  there  was  plenty  of  amadou  pulled  soft 
and  cut  ready  for  use,  a  fair  supply  of  both  kinds  of  Japanese 
paper.  None  of  the  bottles  and  boxes  of  stopping  materials 
were  anywhere  near  running  short  and  the  gold  drawer  was 
filled.  She  examined  the  drawers  that  held  the  less  fre- 
quently used  fittings  and  materials,  conducting  her  operations 
noiselessly  without  impeding  Mr.  Hancock's  perpetual  move- 
ments to  and  fro  between  the  chair  and  the  instrument 
cabinet.  Meanwhile  the  dressing  of  Lady  Cazalet's  painful 
tooth  went  quietly  on  and  Mr.  Leyton  was  waiting,  hoping 
for  her  assistance  downstairs.  There  was  no  excuse  for 
waiting  upstairs  any  longer.  She  went  to  the  writing  table 
and  hung  over  the  appointment  book. 

4 

It  was  a  busy  day.     He  would  hardly  have  half  an  hour 
for  lunch.  .  .  .  She  examined  the  names  carefully,  one  by 


THE   TUNNEL  47 

one,  and  wrote  against  one  "  ask  address,"  underlined  and 
against  another  "  enquire  for  brother — ill."  Lady  Cazalet 
drew  a  deep  sigh  ...  she  had  been  to  other  dentists.  But 
perhaps  they  were  good  ones.  Perhaps  she  was  about 
thirty  .  .  .  had  she  ever  gone  through  a  green  baize  door 
and  seen  a  fat  common  little  man  with  smooth  sly  eyes  stand- 
ing waiting  for  her  in  a  dark  stuffy  room  smelling  of  creo- 
sote? Even  if  she  had  always  been  to  good  ones  they  were 
not  Mr.  Hancock.  They  were  dentists.  Cheerful  ordinary 
men  with  ordinary  voices  and  laughs,  thinking  about  all 
manner  of  things.  Or  apparently  bland,  with  ingratiating 
manners.  Perhaps  a  few  of  them,  some  of  his  friends  and 
some  of  the  young  men  he  had  trained  were  something  like 
him.  Interested  in  dentistry  and  the  way  it  was  all  develop- 
ing, some  of  them  more  enthusiastic  and  interested  in  cer- 
tain special  things  than  he  was.  But  no  one  could  be  quite 
like  him.  No  other  patients  had  the  lot  of  his  patients.  No 
other  dentist  was  so  completely  conscious  of  the  patient  all 
the  time,  as  if  he  were  in  the  chair  himself.  No  other  dentist 
went  on  year  after  year  remaining  sensitive  to  everything 
the  patient  had  to  endure.  No  one  else  was  so  unsparing 
of  himself  .  .  .  children  coming  eagerly  in  for  their  dentis- 
try, sitting  in  the  chair  with  slack  limbs  and  wide  open 
mouths  and  tranquil  eyes  .  .  .  small  bodies  braced  and  tense, 
fat  hands  splayed  out  tightly  on  the  too-big  arms  of  the  chair 
in  determination  to  bear  the  moment  of  pain  bravely  for 
him.  .  .  .  She  wandered  to  the  corner  cupboard  and  opened 
it  and  gazed  idly  in.  But  none  of  them  knew  what  it  cost. 
..."  I  think  you  won't  have  any  more  pain  with  that ;  I'll 
just  put  in  a  dressing  for  the  present " —  she  was  Lady 
Cazalet  again,  without  tooth-ache,  and  that  awful  feeling 
that  you  know  your  body  won't  last  .  .  .  they  did  not  know 
what  it  cost.  What  always  doing  the  best  for  the  patient 
meant.     Perhaps  they  knew  in  a  zvay;  or  knew  something 


48  THE    TUNNEL 

and  did  not  know  what  it  was  .  .  .  there  would  be  some- 
thing different  in  Mr.  Hancock's  expression,  especially  in 
the  throe  quarters  view  when  his  face  was  turned  away  to- 
wards the  instrument  cabinet,  if  he  saved  his  nerves  and 
energy  and  money  by  doing  things  less  considerately,  not 
perpetually  having  the  instruments  sharpened  and  perpet- 
ually buying  fresh  outfits  of  sharp  burs.  The  patient  would 
suffer  more  pain  ...  a  dentist  at  his  best  ought  to  be  more 
delicately  strong  and  fine  than  a  doctor  .  .  .  like  a  fine  en- 
graving ...  a  surgeon  working  amongst  live  nerves  .  .  . 
and  he  would  look  different  himself.  It  was  in  him.  It 
was  keeping  to  that,  all  day,  and  every  day,  choosing  the 
best  difficult  tiresome  way  in  everything  that  kept  that  rad- 
iance about  him  when  he  was  quietly  at  work  ...  I  mustn't 
stay  here  thinking  these  thoughts  .  .  .  it's  that  evil  thing  in 
me,  keeping  on  and  on,  always  thinking  thoughts,  nothing 
getting  done  .  .  .  going  through  life  like  —  a  stuck  pig.  If 
I  went  straight  on  things  would  come  like  that  just  the  same 
in  flashes  —  bang,  bang,  in  your  heart,  everything  breaking 
into  light  just  in  front  of  you,  making  you  almost  fall  off  the 
edge  into  the  expanse  coming  up  before  you,  flowers  and 
light  stretching  out.  Then  you  shut  it  down,  letting  it  go 
through  you  with  a  leap  that  carries  you  to  the  moon  —  the 
sun,  and  makes  you  bump  with  life  like  the  little  boy  burst- 
in  out  of  his  too  small  clothes  and  go  on  choking  with  song 
to  do  the  next  thing  deftly.  That's  right.  Perhaps  that  is 
what  they  all  do?  Perhaps  that's  why  they  won't  stop  to 
remember.  Do  you  realise  ?  Do  you  realise  you're  in  Brus- 
sels? Just  look  at  the  white  houses  there  with  the  bright 
green  trees  against  them  in  the  light.  It's  the  air,  the  clear- 
ness. Sh  —  If  they  hear  you,  they'll  put  up  the  rent.  They 
were  just  Portsmouth  and  Gosport  people,  staying  in  Brus- 
sels  and  fussing  about  Portsmouth  and  Gosport  and  Aunt 
this  and  Mr.  that.  ...  I  shan't  realise  Brussels  and  Bel- 


THE   TUNNEL  49 

gium  for  years  because  of  that.  They  hated  and  killed  me 
because  I  was  like  that.  ...  I  must  be  like  that  .  .  .  some- 
thing comes  along,  golden,  and  presently  there  is  a  thought. 
I  can't  be  easy  till  I've  said  it  in  my  mind,  and  I'm  sad  till 
I  have  said  it  somehow  .  .  .  and  sadder  when  I  have  said  it. 
But  nothing  gets  done.  I  must  stop  thinking,  from  now, 
and  be  fearfully  efficient.  Then  people  will  understand  and 
like  me.  They  will  hate  me  too,  because  I  shall  be  absurd, 
I  shan't  be  really  in  it.  Perhaps  I  shall.  Perhaps  I  shall 
get  in.  The  wonder  is  they  don't  hate  me  more.  There  was 
a  stirring  in  the  chair  and  a  gushing  of  fresh  water  into  the 
tumbler.  Why  do  I  meet  such  nice  people  ?  One  after  an- 
other. "  There  "  said  Mr.  Hancock,  "  I  don't  think  that  will 
trouble  you  any  more.  We  will  make  another  appointment." 
Miriam  took  the  appointment  book  and  a  card  to  the  chair- 
side  and  stayed  upstairs  to  clear  up. 

5 

When  she  reached  the  hall  Mr.  Orly's  door  was  standing 
wide.  Going  in  to  the  surgery  she  found  the  head  parlour 
maid  rapidly  wiping  instruments  with  a  soiled  serviette.  "  Is 
it  all  right,  James  ?  "  she  said  vaguely,  glancing  around  the 
room. 

"  Yes  miss,"  answered  James  briskly  emptying  the  half- 
filled  tumbler  and  going  on  to  dry  and  polish  it  with  the 
soiled  serviette  ...  the  housemaid  spirit  ...  the  dry  cor- 
ner of  a  used  serviette  probably  appeared  to  James  much 
too  good  to  wipe  anything  with.  Telling  her  would  not  be 
any  good.  She  would  think  it  waste  of  time.  .  .  .  Besides, 
Mr.  Orly  himself  would  not  really  mind ;  and  the  things  were 
"  mechanikly  clean  "...  that  was  a  good  phrase  of  Mr. 
Leyton's  .  .  .  with  his  own  things  always  soaking  even  his 
mallets,  until  there  was  no  polish  left  on  the  handles ;  and 
his  nailbrust  in  a  bath  of  alcohol.  .  .  .  Mr.  Orly  came  in, 


5o  THE   TUNNEL 

large  and  spruce.  He  looked  at  his  hands  and  began  comb- 
ing his  beard,  standing  before  the  overmantel.  "  Hancock 
busy?" 

"  Frightfully  busy." 

Miriam  looked  judicially  round  the  room.  James  hovered. 
The  north  wind  howled.  The  little  strip  of  sky  above  the 
outside  wall  that  obscured  the  heavily  stained  glass  of  the 
window  seemed  hardly  to  light  the  room  and  the  little  light 
there  was  was  absorbed  by  the  heavy  dull  oak  furniture  and 
the  dark  heavy  Turkey  carpet  and  dado  of  dull  red  and  tar- 
nished gold. 

"  It  is  dark  for  April  "  murmured  Miriam.  "  I'll  take 
away  your  gold  and  tin  box  if  I  may." 

"  Thank  ye  "  said  Mr.  Orly  nervously,  wheeling  about 
with  a  harsh  sigh  to  scan  the  chair  and  bracket-table; 
straightening  his  waistcoat  and  settling  his  tie.  "  I  got 
through  without  it  —  used  some  of  that  new  patent  silicate 
stuff  of  Leyton's.     All  right  —  show  in  the  Countess." 

James  disappeared.  Miriam  secured  the  little  box  and 
made  off.  On  her  table  was  a  fresh  pile  of  letters  annotated 
in  Mr.  Orly's  clear  stiff  upright  rounded  characters.  She 
went  hurriedly  through  them.  Extricating  her  blotter  she 
sat  down  and  examined  the  inkstand.  Of  course  one  of  her 
pens  had  been  used  and  flung  down  still  wet  with  its  nib 
resting  against  the  handle  of  the  other  pens.  .  .  .  Mr.  Ley- 
ton  ...  his  gold  filling ;  she  ought  to  go  in  and  see  if  she 
could  help  .  .  .  perhaps  he  had  finished  by  now.  She 
wiped  away  the  ink  from  the  nib  and  the  pen-handles. 

Tapping  at  Mr.  Leyton's  door  she  entered.  He  quickly 
turned  a  flushed  face  his  feet  scrabbling  noisily  against  the 
bevelled  base  of  the  chair  with  the  movement  of  his  head. 
"  Sawl  right  Miss  Henderson.  I've  finished.  'V'you  got 
any  emery  strips  —  mine  are  all  worn  out." 


THE   TUNNEL  51 


Back  once  more  in  her  room  she  heard  two  voices  talking 
both  at  once  excitedly  in  the  den.  Mrs.  Orly  had  a  morning 
visitor.  She  would  probably  stay  to  lunch.  She  peered 
into  the  little  folding  mirror  hanging  by  the  side  of  the 
small  mantelpiece  and  saw  a  face  flushed  and  animated  so 
far.  Her  hair  was  as  unsatisfactory  as  usual.  As  she 
looked  she  became  conscious  of  its  uncomfortable  weight 
pinned  to  the  back  of  her  head  and  the  unpleasant  warm  feel- 
ing of  her  thick  fringe.  By  lunch-time  her  face  would  be 
strained  and  yellow  with  sitting  at  work  in  the  cold  room 
with  her  feet  on  the  oil-cloth  under  the  window.  She 
glanced  at  the  oil  lamp  standing  in  the  little  fireplace,  its 
single  flame  glaring  nakedly  against  the  red-painted  radia- 
tor. The  telephone  bell  rang.  Through  the  uproar  of  me- 
chanical sounds  that  came  to  her  ear  from  the  receiver  she 
heard  a  far  off  faint  angry  voice  in  incoherent  reiteration. 
"  Hullo,  hullo  "  she  answered  encouringly.  The  voice  faded 
but  the  sounds  went  on  punctuated  by  a  sharp  angry  pop- 
ping. Mr.  Orly's  door  opened  and  his  swift  heavy  tread 
came  through  the  hall.  Miriam  looked  up  apprehensively, 
saying  "  Hullo  "  at  intervals  into  the  angry  din  of  the  tele- 
phone. He  came  swiftly  on  humming  in  a  soft  light  bari- 
tone, his  broad  forehead,  bald  rounded  crown  and  bright 
fair  beard  shining  in  the  gloom  of  the  hall.  A  crumpled 
serviette  swung  with  his  right  hand.  Perhaps  he  was  going 
to  the  workshop.  The  door  of  the  den  opened.  Mrs.  Orly 
appeared  and  made  an  inarticulate  remark  abstractedly  and 
disappeared.  "  Hullo,  hullo  "  repeated  Miriam  busily  into 
the  telephone.  There  was  a  loud  report  and  the  thin  angry 
voice  came  clear  from  a  surrounding  silence.  Mr.  Orly 
came  in  on  tiptoe,  sighed  impatiently  and  stood  near  her 


52  T  H  E    TUNNEL 

drumming  noiselessly  on  the  table  at  her  side.  "  Wrong 
number  "  said  Miriam,  "  will  you  please  ring  off?  " 

"  What  a  lot  of  trouble  they  givya  "  said  Mr.  Orly.  "  I 
say,  what's  the  name  of  the  American  chap  Hancock  was 
talking  about  at  lunch  yesterday?  " 

Miriam  frowned. 

"  Can  y'remember?     About  sea-power." 

"  Oh  "  said  Miriam  relieved.     "  Mahan." 

"Eh?" 

"  Mahan.     May-ann." 

"  That's  it.  You've  got  it.  Wonderful.  Don't  forget  to 
send  off  Major  Moke's  case  sharp  will  ye?  " 

Miriam's  eyes  scanned  the  table  and  caught  sight  of  a 
half  hidden  tin-box. 

"  No.     I'll  get  it  off." 

"  Right.  It's  in  a  filthy  state,  but  there's  no  time  to  clean 
it." 

He  strode  back  through  the  hall  murmuring  Mahan. 
Miriam  drew  the  tin  from  its  place  of  concealment.  It 
contained  a  mass  of  dirty  cotton-wool  upon  which  lay  a 
double  denture  coated  with  tartar  and  joined  by  tarnished 
gold  springs.  "  Eleven  thirty  sharp  "  ran  the  instruction 
on  an  accompanying  scrap  of  paper.  No  address.  The 
name  of  the  patient  was  unfamiliar.  Mrs.  Orly  put  her 
head  through  the  door  of  the  den. 

"What  did  Ro  want?" 

Miriam  turned  towards  the  small  sallow  eager  face  and 
met  the  kind  sweet  intent  blue  glint  of  the  eyes.  She  ex- 
plained and  Mrs.  Orly's  anxious  little  face  brdke  into  a 
smile  that  dispelled  the  lines  on  the  broad  strip  of  low  fore- 
head leaving  it  smooth  and  sallow  under  the  smoothly 
brushed  brown  hair. 

"  How  funny  "  said  Mrs.  Orly  hurriedly.     "  I  was  just 


THE   TUNNEL  53 

comin'  out  to  ask  you  the  name  of  that  singer.     You  know. 
Mark  something.     Marsky.  .  .  ." 

"  Mar-kaysie  "  said  Miriam. 

"  That's  it.  I  can't  think  how  you  remember."  Mrs. 
Orly  disappeared  and  the  two  voices  broke  out  again  in 
eager  chorus.  Miriam  returned  to  her  tin.  Mastering  her 
disgust  she  removed  the  plate  from  the  box,  shook  the  cot- 
ton-wool out  into  the  paper-basket  collected  fresh  wool, 
packing  paper,  sealing  wax,  candle  and  matches  and  set  to 
work  to  make  up  the  parcel.  She  would  have  to  attack  the 
workshop  again  and  get  them  to  take  it  out.  Perhaps  they 
would  know  the  address.  When  the  case  was  half  packed 
she  looked  up  the  patient's  name  in  the  ledger.  Five  en- 
tries in  about  as  many  years  —  either  repairs  or  springs  — 
how  simple  dentistry  became  when  people  had  lost  all  their 
teeth.  There  were  two  addresses,  a  town  and  a  country  one 
written  in  a  long  time  ago  in  ink ;  above  them  were  two  in 
pencil,  one  crossed  out.  The  newest  of  the  address  books 
showed  these  two  addresses,  one  in  ink,  neither  crossed  out. 
What  had  become  of  the  card  and  letter  that  came  with  the 
case  ?     In  the  den  with  Mrs.  Orly  and  her  guest.  .  .  . 

Footsteps  were  coming  neatly  and  heavily  up  the  base- 
ment stairs.  Winthrop.  He  came  in  smiling,  still  holding 
his  long  apron  gathered  up  to  free  his  knees.  "  Ph  —  Ph  — 
Major  Moke's  case  ready?"  he  whispered  cheerfully. 

"  Almost  —  but  I  don't  know  the  address." 

"  It's  the  ph  —  ph  —  Buck'mam  Palace  Otel.  It's  to  go 
by  hand." 

"  Oh,  thank  goodness "  laughed  Miriam  sweeping  the 
scissors  round  the  uneven  edge  of  the  wrapping  paper. 

"  My  word "  said  Winthrop,  "  What  an  eye  you've  got 
I  couldn't  do  that  to  ph-save  melife  and  I'm  supposed  to  be 
a  ph-mechanic." 

"  Have  I,"   said   Miriam   surprised,   "  I   shan't   be   two 


54  THE    TUNNEL 

minutes ;  it'll  be  ready  by  the  time  anybody's  ready  to  go. 
I'.ut  the  letters  aren't" 

"  All  right.  I'll  send  up  for  them  when  we  go  out  to 
lunch,"  said  Winthrop  consolingly,  disappearing. 

Miriam  found  a  piece  of  fine  glazed  green  twine  in  her 
string  box  and  tied  up  the  neat  packet  —  sealing  the  ends 
of  the  string  with  a  neat  blob  on  the  upper  side  of  the  packet 
and  the  folded  paper  at  each  end.  She  admired  the  two 
firmly  flattened  ends  of  string  close  together.  Their  free 
ends  united  by  the  firm  red  blob  were  a  decorative  substitute 
for  a  stamp  on  the  white  surface  of  the  paper.  She  wrote 
in  the  address  in  an  upright  rounded  hand  with  firm  rotund 
little  embellishments.  Poring  over  the  result  she  examined 
it  at  various  distances.  It  was  delightful.  She  wanted  to 
show  it  to  someone.  It  would  be  lost  on  Major  Moke. 
He  would  tear  open  the  paper  to  get  at  his  dreadful  teeth. 
Putting  the  stamps  on  the  label,  she  regretfully  resigned  the 
packet  and  took  up  Mr.  Orly's  day-book.  It  was  in  arrears 
—  three,  four  days  not  entered  in  the  ledger.  Major  Moke 
repair  —  one  guinea,  she  wrote.  Mr.  Hancock's  showing 
out  bell  rang.  She  took  up  her  packet  and  surveyed  it  up- 
side down.  The  address  looked  like  Chinese.  It  was  really 
beautiful  .  .  .  but  handwriting  was  doomed  .  .  .  short- 
hand and  typewriting  .  .  .  she  ought  to  know  them  if  she 
were  ever  to  make  more  than  a  pound  a  week  as  secretary 
.  .  .  awful.  What  a  good  thing  Mr.  Hancock  thought  them 
unprofessional  .  .  .  yet  there  were  already  men  in  Wimpole 
Street  who  had  their  correspondence  typed.  What  did  he 
mean  by  saying  that  the  art  of  conversation  was  doomed? 
He  did  not  like  conversation.  Jimmie  came  in  for  the  parcel 
and  scuttled  downstairs  with  it.  Mr.  Hancock's  patient  was 
going  out  through  the  hall.  He  had  not  rung  for  her  to  go 
up.  Perhaps  there  was  very  little  to  clear  and  he  was  doing 
it  himself. 


THE   TUNNEL  55 

7 

He  was  coming  downstairs.  Her  hands  went  to  the  pile 
of  letters  and  busily  sorted  them.  Through  the  hall.  In 
here.  Leisurely.  How  are  you  getting  on  ?  Half  amused. 
Half  solicitous.  The  first  weeks.  The  first  day.  She  had 
only  just  come.  Perhaps  there  would  be  the  hand  on  the 
back  of  the  chair  again  as  before  he  discovered  the  stiffness 
like  his  own  stiffness.  He  was  coming  right  round  to  the 
side  of  the  chair  into  the  light,  waiting,  without  having 
said  anything.  She  seemed  to  sit  through  a  long  space 
waiting  for  him  to  speak,  in  a  radiance  that  shaped  and 
smoothed  her  face  as  she  turned  slowly  and  considered  the 
blunted  grave  features,  their  curious  light,  and  met  the  smil- 
ing grey  eyes.  They  were  not  observing  the  confusion  on 
the  table.  He  had  something  to  say  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  work.  She  waited  startled  into  an  overflowing  of 
the  curious  radiance,  deepening  the  light  in  which  they  were 
grouped.  "Are  you  busy?"  "No,"  said  Miriam  in  quiet 
abandonment.  "  I  want  your  advice  on  a  question  of  decor- 
ation "  he  pursued  smiling  down  at  her  with  the  expression 
of  a  truant  schoolboy  and  standing  aside  as  she  rose.  "  My 
patient's  put  off  "  he  added  confidentially,  holding  the  door 
wide  for  her.  Miriam  trotted  incredulously  upstairs  in  front 
of  him  and  in  at  the  open  surgery  door  and  stood  contemplat- 
ing the  room  from  the  middle  of  the  great  square  of  soft 
thick  grey  green  carpet  with  her  back  to  the  great  triple 
window  and  the  littered  remains  of  a  long  sitting. 

Perhaps  a  question  of  decoration  meant  altering  the  posi- 
tions of  some  of  the  pictures.  She  glanced  about  at  them, 
enclosed  in  her  daily  unchanging  unsatisfying  impressions  — 
the  green  landscape  plumy  with  meadow-sweet,  but  not  let- 
ting you  through  to  wander  in  fields,  the  little  soft  bright 
coloury  painting  of  the  doorway  of  St.  Mark's  —  San  Marco, 


56  THE   TUNNEL 

painted  by  an  Englishman,  with  a  procession  going  in  at  the 
door  and  beggars  round  the  doorway,  blobby  and  shapeless 
like  English  peasants  in  Italian  clothes  .  .  .  bad  .  .  .  and 
the  man  had  worked  and  studied  and  gone  to  Italy  and  had 
a  name  and  still  worked  and  people  bought  his  things  .  .  . 
an  engraving  very  fine  and  small  of  a  low  bridge  in  a  little 
town,  quiet  sharp  cheering  lines ;  and  above  it  another  en- 
graving, a  tiresome  troubled  girl,  all  a  sharp  film  of  fine 
woven  lines  and  lights  and  shadows  in  a  rich  dark  liny  filmy 
interior,  neither  letting  you  through  nor  holding  you  up,  the 
girl  worrying  there  in  the  middle  of  the  picture,  not  moving, 
an  obstruction.  .  .  .  Maris  ...  the  two  little  water  colours 
of  Devonshire,  a  boat  with  a  brown  sail  and  a  small  narrow 
piece  of  a  street  zig-zagging  sharply  up  between  crooked 
houses,  by  a  Londoner  —  just  to  say  how  crooked  everything 
was  .  .  .  that  thing  in  this  month's  Studio  was  better  than 
any  of  these  .  .  .  her  heart  throbbed  suddenly  as  she 
thought  of  it  ...  a  narrow  sandy  pathway  going  off,  frilled 
with  sharp  greenery,  far  into  a  green  wood.  .  .  .  Had  he 
seen  it?  The  studios  lay  safely  there  on  the  polished  table 
in  the  corner,  the  disturbing  bowl  of  flowers  from  the  coun- 
try, the  great  pieces  of  pottery,  friends,  warm  and  sympa- 
thetic to  touch,  never  letting  you  grow  tired  of  their  colour 
and  design  .  .  .  standing  out  against  the  soft  dull  gold  of 
the  dado  and  the  bold  soft  green  and  buff  of  the  wall  paper. 
The  oil  painting  of  the  cousin  was  looking  on  a  little  super- 
ciliously .  .  .  centuries  of  "  fastidious  refinement  "  looking 
forth  from  her  child's  face.  If  she  were  here  it  would  be 
she  would  be  consulted  about  the  decoration;  but  she  was 
away  somewhere  in  some  house,  moving  about  in  a  dignified 
way  under  her  mass  of  gold  hair,  saying  things  when  speech 
became  a  necessity  in  the  refined  fastidious  half-contempt- 
uous tone,  hiding  her  sensitive  desire  for  companionship, 
contemptuous  of  most  things  and  most  people.     To-day  she 


THE   TUNNEL  57 

had  an  interested  look,  she  was  half  jealously  setting  stand- 
ards for  him  all  the  time.  .  .  .  Miriam  set  her  aside.  The 
Chinese  figures  staring  down  ferociously  from  the  narrow 
shelf  running  along  the  base  of  the  high  white  frieze  were 
more  real  to  her.  They  belonged  to  the  daily  life  here, 
secure  from  censure. 

8 

From  the  brown  paper  wrappings  emerged  a  large  plaque 
of  Oriental  pottery.  Mr.  Hancock  manoeuvred  it  upright, 
holding  it  opposite  to  her  on  the  floor,  supported  against  his 
knees.  "There  —  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  mur- 
mured bending  over  it.  Miriam's  eyes  went  from  the  vein- 
ings  on  his  flushed  forehead  to  the  violent  soft  rich  red  and 
blue  and  dull  green  covering  the  huge  concave  disc  from 
side  to  side.  It  appeared  to  represent  a  close  thicket  of 
palm  fronds,  thin  flat  fingers,  superimposed  and  splaying 
out  in  all  directions  over  the  deep  blue  background.  In 
the  centre  appeared  the  head  and  shoulders  of  an  enormous 
tiger,  coming  sinuously  forward,  one  great  paw  planted  on 
the  greenery  near  the  foremost  middle  edge  of  the  plaque. 

"  M'm,"  said  Miriam  staring. 

Mr.  Hancock  rubbed  the  surface  of  the  plaque  with  his 
forefinger.  Miriam  came  near  and  ran  her  finger  down 
across  the  rich  smooth  reliefs. 

"  Where  shall  I  put  it?  "  said  Mr.  Hancock. 

"  I  should  have  it  somewhere  on  that  side  of  the  room, 
where  the  light  falls  on  it." 

Mr.  Hancock  raised  the  plaque  in  his  arms  and  walked 
with  it  to  the  wall  raising  it  just  above  his  head  and  holding 
it  in  place  between  the  two  pictures  of  Devonshire.  They 
faded  to  a  small  muddled  dinginess,  and  the  buff  and  green 
patterning  of  the  wall-paper  showed  shabby  and  dim. 

"  It  looks  somehow  too  big  or  too  small  or  something. 


58  THETUNNEL 

...   I  should  have  it  down  level  with  the  eyes,  so  that  you 
can  look  straight  into  it." 

Mr.  Hancock  carefully  lowered  it. 

"  Let  me  come  and  hold  it  so  that  you  can  look  "  said 
Miriam  advancing. 

"  It's  too  heavy  for  you  "  said  Mr.  Hancock  straining  his 
head  back  and  moving  it  from  side  to  side. 

"  I  believe  it  would  look  best  "  said  Miriam  "  across  the 
corner  of  the  room  as  you  come  in  —  where  the  corner  cup- 
board is  —  I'm  sure  it  would  "  she  said  eagerly  and  went 
back  to  the  centre  of  the  carpet. 

Mr.  Hancock  smiled  towards  the  small  oak  cupboard 
fixed  low  in  the  angle  of  the  wall. 

"  We  should  have  to  move  the  cupboard,"  he  said 
dubiously  and  carried  the  heavy  plate  to  the  indicated 
place. 

"  That's  simply  lovely  "  said  Miriam  in  delight  as  he  held 
the  plaque  in  front  of  the  long  narrow  fagade  of  black  oak. 

Mr.  Hancock  lowered  the  plaque  to  the  floor  and  propped 
it  crosswise  against  the  angle. 

"  It  would  be  no  end  of  a  business  fixing  it  up  "  he  mur- 
mured crossing  to  her  side.  They  stood  looking  at  the  beau- 
tiful surface  blurred  a  little  in  the  light  by  its  backward 
tilt.  They  gazed  fascinated  as  the  plaque  slid  gently  for- 
ward and  fell  heavily  breaking  into  two  pieces. 

They  regarded  one  another  quietly  and  went  forward  to 
gather  up  the  fragments.  The  broken  sides  gritted  together 
as  Miriam  held  hers  steady  for  the  other  to  be  fitted  to  it. 
When  they  were  joined  the  crack  was  hardly  visible. 

"  That'll  be  a  nice  piece  of  work  for  Messrs.  Xikko  " 
said  Mr.  Hancock  with  a  little  laugh,  "we'd  better  get  it 
in  back  behind  the  sofa  for  the  present."  They  spread  the 
brown  paper  over  the  brilliant  surfaces  and  stood  up. 
Miriam's  perceptions   raced   happily   along.     How   had  he 


THE   TUNNEL  59 

known  that  she  cared  for  things  ?  She  was  not  sure  that  she 
did  .  .  .  not  in  the  way  that  he  did  .  .  .  How  did  he  know 
that  she  had  noticed  any  of  his  things?  Because  she  had 
blurted  out  "  Oh  what  a  perfectly  lovely  picture  "  when  he 
showed  her  the  painting  of  his  cousin  ?  But  that  was  because 
he  admired  his  cousin  and  her  brother  had  painted  the  pic- 
ture and  he  admired  them  both  and  she  had  not  known  about 
this  when  she  spoke. 

"  Did  you  see  this  month's  Studio  ?  "  she  asked  shyly. 

He  turned  to  the  table  and  took  up  the  uppermost  of  the 
pile. 

"  There's  a  lovely  green  picture  "  said  Miriam,  "  at  least 
I  like  it." 

Mr.  Hancock  turned  pages  ruminatively. 

"  Those  are  good  things  "  he  said  flattening  the  open  page. 

"  Japanese  flower  Decorations  "  read  Miriam  looking  at 
the  reproduced  squares  of  flowering  branches  arranged  with 
a  curious  naturalness  in  strange  flat  dishes.  They  fascinated 
her  at  once  —  stiff  and  real,  shooting  straight  up  from  the 
earth  and  branching  out.  They  seemed  coloured.  She 
turned  pages  and  gazed. 

"  How  nice  and  queer." 

Mr.  Hancock  bent  smiling.  "  They've  got  a  whole  science 
of  this  you  know  "  he  said ;  "  it  takes  them  years  to  learn 
it ;  they  apprentice  themselves  and  study  for  years.  .  .  ." 

Miriam  looked  incredulously  at  the  simple  effects  —  just 
branches  placed  "  artistically  "  in  flat  dishes  and  fixed  some- 
how at  the  base  amongst  little  heaps  of  stones. 

"  It  looks  easy  enough." 

Mr.  Hancock  laughed.  "  Well  —  you  try.  We'll  get 
some  broom  or  something,  and  you  shall  try  your  hand. 
You'd  better  read  the  article.  Look  here  —  they've  got 
names  for  all  the  angles.  .  .  .  '  Shin  ' —  he  read  with  amused 
admiring  delight,  '  sho-shin  '  .  .  .  there's  no  end  of  it." 


60  THE    TUNNEL 

Miriam  fired  and  hesitated.  "  It's  like  a  sort  of  mathe- 
matics. .  .  .  I'm  no  good  at  mathematics." 

"  I  expect  you  could  get  very  good  results  .  .  .  we'll  try. 
They  carry  it  to  such  extraordinary  lengths  because  there's 
all  sorts  of  social  etiquette  mixed  up  with  it  —  you  can't 
have  a  branch  pointing  at  a  guest  for  instance  —  it  would 
be  rude." 

"  No  wonder  it  takes  them  years  "  said  Miriam. 

They  laughed  together,  moving  vaguely  about  the  room. 

Mr.  Hancock  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  celluloid  tray  of 
hairpins  on  the  mantelshelf,  and  blew  the  dust  from  it  .  .  . 
there  was  something  she  remembered  in  some  paper,  very 
forcibly  written,  about  the  falsity  of  introducing  single 
specimens  of  Japanese  art,  the  last  results  of  centuries  of  an 
artistic  discipline,  that  was  it,  that  had  grown  from  the  life 
of  a  secluded  people  living  isolated  in  a  particular  spot  under 
certain  social  and  natural  conditions,  into  English  house- 
hold decoration.  ..."  Gleanings  in  Buddha  Fields "  the 
sun  on  rice  fields  .  .  .  and  Fujiama  —  Fuji-no-San  in  the 
distance  .  .  .  but  he  did  not  like  Hearn  — "  there's  some- 
thing in  the  chap  that  puts  me  off  "  .  .  .  puts  off  —  what  a 
good  phrase  ..."  something  sensuous  in  him  "...  but 
you  could  never  forget  Buddha  Fields.  It  made  you  know 
you  were  in  Japan,  in  the  picture  of  Japan  .  .  .  and  some- 
body had  said  that  all  good  art,  all  great  art,  had  a  sensuous 
element  ...  it  was  dreadful,  but  probably  true  .  .  .  be- 
cause the  man  had  observed  it  and  was  not  an  artist,  but 
somebody  looking  carefully  on.  Mr.  Hancock,  Englishman, 
was  "  put  off  "  by  sensuousness,  by  anybody  taking  a  delight 
in  the  sun  on  rice  fields  and  the  gay  colours  of  Japan  .  .  . 
perhaps  one  ought  to  be  "  put  off  "  by  Hearn  .  .  .  but  Mr. 
Hancock  liked  Japanese  things  and  bought  them  and  put 
them  in  with  his  English  things,  that  looked  funny  and  tame 


THE   TUNNEL  61 

beside  them.  What  he  did  not  like  was  the  expression  of 
delight.  It  was  queer  and  annoying  somehow  .  .  .  espe- 
cially as  he  said  that  the  way  English  women  were  trained 
to  suppress  their  feelings  was  bad.  He  had  theories  and 
fixed  preferences  and  yet  always  seemed  to  be  puzzled  about 
so  many  things. 

"  D'you  think  it  right  to  try  to  introduce  single  pieces  of 
Japanese  art  into  English  surroundings?"  she  said  tartly, 
beginning  on  the  instruments. 

"  East  is  East  and  West  is  West  and  never  the  twain  can 
meet  ?  " 

"  That's  a  dreadful  idea  —  I  don't  believe  it  a  bit." 

Mr.  Hancock  laughed.  He  believed  in  those  awful  final 
dreary-weary  things  .  .  .  some  species  are  so  widely  dif- 
ferentiated that  they  cannot  amalgamate  —  awful  .  .  .  but 
if  one  said  that  he  would  laugh  and  say  it  was  beyond  him 
.  .  .  and  he  liked  and  disliked  without  understanding  the 
curious  differences  between  people  —  did  not  know  why  they 
were  different  —  they  put  him  off  or  did  not  put  him  off 
and  he  was  just.  He  liked  and  reverenced  Japanese  art  and 
there  was  an  artist  in  his  family.     That  was  strange  and  fine. 

"  I  suppose  we  ought  to  have  some  face-powder  here," 
mused  Mr.  Hancock. 

"  They'll  take  longer  than  ever  if  we  do." 

r<  I  know  —  that's  the  worst  of  it ;  but  I  commit  such 
fearful  depredations  ...  we  want  a  dressing  room  ...  if 
I  had  my  way  we'd  have  a  proper  dressing  room  downstairs. 
But  I  think  we  must  get  some  powder  and  a  puff.  .  .  .  Do 
you  think  you  could  get  some  ...  ? "  Miriam  shrank. 
Once  in  a  chemist's  shop,  in  a  strong  Burlington  Arcade 
west-end  mood  buying  some  scent,  she  had  seized  and  bought 
a  little  box.  ...  La  Dorine  de  Poche  .  .  .  Dorin,  Paris 
.  .  .  but  that  was  different  to  asking  openly  for  powder  and 


62  THE    TUNNEL 

a  puff  ...  la  Dorine  de  Dorin  Paris  was  secret  and  wonder- 
ful. ..."  I'll  try  "  she  said  bravely  and  heard  the  familiar 
little  sympathetic  laugh. 

9 
Lunch  would  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes  and  none  of  the 
letters  were  done.  She  glanced  distastefully  at  the  bold 
handwritings  scrawling,  under  impressive  stamped  addresses 
with  telephone  numbers,  and  names  of  stations  and  tele- 
graphic addresses,  across  the  well-shaped  sheets  of  expensive 
note-paper,  to  ask  in  long,  fussy,  badly-put  sentences  for  ex- 
pensive appointments.  Several  of  the  signatures  were  un- 
familiar to  her  and  must  be  looked  up  in  the  ledger  in  case 
titles  might  be  attached.  She  glanced  at  the  dates  of  the  ap- 
pointments —  they  could  all  go  by  the  evening  post.  What 
a  good  thing  Mr.  Hancock  had  given  up  overlooking  the 
correspondence.  Mrs.  Hermann's  letter  he  should  see 
.  .  .  but  that  could  not  anyhow  have  been  answered  by  re- 
turn. The  lunch-bell  rang.  .  .  .  Mr.  Orly's  letters!  There 
was  probably  a  telegram  or  some  dreadful  urgent  thing 
about  one  or  other  of  them  that  ought  to  have  been  dealt 
with.  With  beating  heart  she  fumbled  them  through  —  each 
one  bore  the  word  answered  in  Mr.  Orly's  fine  pointed  hand. 
Thank  goodness.  Opening  a  drawer  she  crammed  them 
into  a  crowded  clip  ...  at  least  a  week's  addresses  to  be 
checked  or  entered.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hancock's  unanswered  letters 
went  into  the  same  drawer,  leaving  her  table  fairly  clear. 
Mr.  Leyton's  door  burst  open,  he  clattered  down  the  base- 
ment stairs.  Miriam  went  into  his  room  and  washed  her 
hands  in  the  corner  basin  under  the  patent  unleaking  taps. 
Everything  was  splashed  over  with  permanganate  of  potash. 
The  smell  of  the  room  combined  all  the  dental  drugs  with 
the  odour  of  leather  —  a  volunteer  officer's  accoutrements 
lay  in  confusion  all  over  on  the  secretaire.     Beside  them 


THE   TUNNEL  63 

stood  an  open  pot  of  leather  polish.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Orly 
passed  the  open  door  and  went  downstairs.  They  were 
alone.     The  guest  had  gone. 

10 

"  Come  and  share  the  remains  of  the  banquet  Miss 
Hens'n." 

"  Do  have  just  a  bit  of  somethin',  Ro  darling,  a  bit  of 
chicking  or  somethin'." 

"  Feeling  the  effects  ?  "  remarked  Mr.  Leyton  cheerfully 
munching,  "  I've  got  a  patient  at  half  past "  he  added  ner- 
vously glancing  up  as  if  to  justify  his  existence  as  well  as 
his  remark.  Miriam  hoped  he  would  go  on ;  perhaps  it 
would  occur  to  Mrs.  Orly  to  ask  him  about  the  patient. 

"  You'd  feel  the  effects  my  boy  if  you  hadn't  had  a  wink 
the  whole  blessed  night." 

"  Hancock  busy  Miss  Hens'  ?  "  Miriam  glanced  at  the 
flushed  forehead  and  hoped  that  Mr.  Orly  would  remain 
with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 
She  was  hungry  and  there  would  be  no  peace  for  anybody 
if  he  were  roused. 

"Too  many  whiskies?"  enquired  Mr.  Leyton  cheerfully, 
shovelling  salad  on  to  his  plate. 

"  To  much  whisking  and  frisking  altogether  sergeant," 
said  Mr.  Orly  incisively,  raising  his  head. 

Mrs.  Orly  flushed  and  frowned  at  Mr.  Orly. 

"  Don't  be  silly  Ley  —  you  know  how  father  hates  dinner 
parties." 

Mr.  Orly  sighed  harshly,  pulling  himself  up  as  Miriam 
began  a  dissertation  on  Mr.  Hancock's  crowded  day. 

"  Ze  got  someone  with  him  now?  "  put  in  Mrs.  Orly  per- 
functorily. 

"  Wonderful  man  "  sighed  Mr.  Orly  harshly,  glancing  at 
his  son. 


64  THE    TUNNEL 

"  Have  a  bit  of  chicking  Ro." 

"  No  my  love  no  not  all  the  perfumes  of  Araby  —  not  all 
the  chickens  of  Cheshire.  Have  some  pate  Miss  Hens'  — 
No?     You  despise  pate?  " 

A  maid  came  briskly  in  and  looked  helpfully  round. 

"Who's  your  half  past  one  patient  Ley?"  asked  Mrs. 
Orly  nervously. 

"  Buck  "  rapped  Mr.  Leyton.  "  We  going  to  wait  for 
Mr.  Hancock,  Mater?" 

"  No,  of  course  not.  Keep  some  things  hot  Emma  and 
bring  in  the  sweets." 

"  I  lave  some  more  chicken  Miss  Hens'  —  Emma !  "  he 
indicated  his  son  with  a  flourish  of  his  serviette.  "  Wait 
upon  Mr.  Leyton,  serve  him  speedily." 

Emma  arrested  looked  hopefully  about,  smiled  in  brisk 
amusement,  seized  some  dishes  and  went  out. 

Mrs.  Orly's  pinched  face  expanded.  "  Silly  you  are, 
Ro."  Miriam  grinned,  watching  dreamily.  Mr.  Leyton's 
flushed  face  rose  and  dipped  spasmodically  over  the  remains 
of  his  salad. 

"Bucking  for  Buck" — laughed  Mr.  Orly  in  a  soft 
falsetto. 

"  Ro,  you  are  silly,  who's  Buck,  Ley?  " 

"  Don't  question  the  officer  Nelly." 

"  Ro,  you  are  absurd,"  laughed  Mrs.  Orly. 

"  Help  the  jellies  dearest  "  shouted  Mr.  Orly  in  a  frown- 
ing whisper.  "  Have  some  jelly,  Miss  Hens'.  It's  all  right 
Ley  .  .  .  glad  you  so  busy,  my  son.  How  many  did  you 
have  this  morning?"  Mopping  his  brow  and  whisking  his 
person  with  his  serviette  he  glanced  sidelong. 

"  Two  "  said  Mr.  Leyton,  noisily  spooning  up  jelly,  "  any 
more  of  that  stuff  mater,  how  about  Hancock?" 

"  There's  plenty  here "  said  Mrs.  Orly  helping  him. 
Miriam  laboured  with  her  jelly  and  glanced  at  the  dish. 


THE   TUNNEL  65 

People  wolfed  their  food.  It  would  seem  so  conspicuous 
to  begin  again  when  the  fuss  had  died  down ;  with  Mr.  Orly 
watching  as  if  feeding  were  a  contemptible  self-indulgence. 

"  Had  a  beastly  gold  case  half  the  morning  "  rapped  Mr. 
Leyton  and  drank,  with  a  gulp. 

"  Get  any  help  ?  "  said  Mr.  Orly  glancing  at  Miriam. 

"  No  "  said  Mr.  Leyton  in  a  non-committal  tone,  reach- 
ing across  the  table  for  the  cheese. 

"Hancock  too  busy?"  asked  Mr.  Orly.  "Have  some 
more  jelly,  Miss  Hens'n." 

"  No  thank  you  "  said  Miriam. 

"  A  bit  of  cheese ;  a  fragment  of  giddy  Gorgonzola." 

"  No  thanks." 

Mrs.  Orly  brushed  busily  at  her  bodice,  peering  down 
with  indrawn  chin.  The  room  was  close  with  gas.  If  Mr. 
Hancock  would  only  come  down  and  give  her  the  excuse 
of  attending  to  his  room. 

"What  you  doing  s'aafnoon?"  asked  Mr.  Leyton. 

"  I,  my  boy,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Orly  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  "  string  myself  up,  I  think." 

"  You'd  much  better  string  yourself  round  the  Outer 
Circle  and  take  Lennard's  advice." 

"  Good  advice  my  boy  —  if  we  all  took  good  advice  .  .  . 
eh  Miss  Hens'n?  I've  taken  twenty  grains  of  phenacetin 
this  morning." 

"  Well,  you  go  and  get  a  good  walk,"  said  Mr.  Leyton 
clattering  to  his  feet.     "  S'cuse  me,  Mater." 

"  Right  my  boy !  Excellent !  A  Daniel  come  to  judg- 
ment !  All  right  Ley  —  get  on  with  you.  Buck  up  and  see 
Buck.  Oh-h-h  my  blooming  head.  Excuse  my  language 
Miss  Hens'n.  Ah !  Here's  the  great  man.  Good  morning 
Hancock.     How  are  you  ?     D'they  know  you're  down  ?  " 

Mr.  Hancock  murmured  his  greetings  and  sat  down  op- 
posite Miriam  with  a  grave  preoccupied  air. 


66  THE   TUNNEL 

"  Busy?  "  asked  Mr.  ( >rly  turning  to  face  his  partner. 

••  Yes—  fairly  "  said  Mr.  Hancock  pleasantly. 

"  Wonderful  man.  .  .  .  Ley's  gone  off  like  a  bee  in  a 
gale.     D'they  know  Hancock's  down  Nelly?" 

Miriam  glanced  at  Mr.  Hancock  wishing  he  could  lunch 
in  peace,  lit'  was  tired.  Did  he  too  feel  oppressed  with 
the  gas  and  the  pale  madder  store  cupboards?  .  .  .  glaring 
muddy  hot  pink? 

"  I've  got  a  blasted  head  on  .  .  .  excuse  my  language. 
Twenty  of  'em,  twenty  to  dinner." 

"Oh  yes?"  said  Mr.  Hancock  shifting  in  his  chair  and 
glancing  about. 

*  Nelly  /  D'they  know  he's  down?  Start  on  a  pate, 
Hancock.     The  remains  of  the  banquet." 

"  (  >h  .  .  .  well,  thanks." 

"  You  never  get  heads  do  ye?  " 

Mr.  Hancock  smiled  and  began  a  murmuring  response  as 
he  busied  himself  with  his  pate. 

"  Poor  Ro  he's  got  a  most  awful  head.  .  .  .  How's  your 
uncle  Mr.  Hancock?  " 

"  Oh  —  thank  you.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  he's  not  very  flourish- 
ing." 

"  He's  better  than  he  used  to  be,  isn't  he?" 

"  Well  —  yes,  I  think  perhaps  on  the  whole  he  is." 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  there.  Hancock.  Cleave  came. 
He  was  in  no  end  of  form.  Told  us  some  fine  ones.  Have 
a  biscuit  and  butter  Miss  Hens'n." 

Miriam  refused  and  excused  herself. 

On  her  way  upstairs  she  strolled  into  Mr.  Leyton's  room. 
He  greeted  her  with  a  smile  —  polishing  instruments  busily. 

"  Mr.  Hancock  busy?  "  he  asked  brisklv. 

"  M'm." 

"  You  busy?  I  say  if  I  have  Buck  in  will  you  finish  up 
these  things?  " 


THE   TUNNEL  67 

"  All  right,  if  you  like  "  said  Miriam,  regretting  her  so- 
ciable impulse.  "  Is  Mr.  Buck  here  ?  "  She  glanced  at  the 
appointment  book. 

"  Yes,  he's  waiting." 

"  You  haven't  got  anybody  else  this  afternoon "  ob- 
served Miriam. 

"  I  know.  But  I  want  to  be  down  at  Headquarters  by 
five  in  full  kit  if  I  possibly  can.  Has  the  Pater  got  any 
body?" 

"  No.  The  afternoon's  marked  off  —  he's  going  out,  I 
think.  Look  here,  I'll  clear  up  your  things  afterwards  if 
you  want  to  go  out.  Will  you  want  all  these  for  Mr. 
Buck?" 

"  Oh  —  all  right,  thanks ;  I  dunno.  I've  got  to  finish 
him  off  this  afternoon  and  make  him  pay  up." 

"  Why  pay  up?     Isn't  he  trustworthy?  " 

"Trustworthy?  A  man  who's  just  won  three  hundred 
pounds  on  a  horse  and  chucked  his  job  on  the  strength 
of  it." 

"  What  a  fearfully  insane  thing  to  do." 

"  Lost  his  head."  ' 

"  Is  he  very  young?  " 

"  Oo  —'bout  twenty-five." 

"  H'm.     I  spose  he'll  begin  the  rake's  progress." 

"  That's  about  it.  You've  just  about  hit  it."  said  Mr. 
Leyton  with  heavy  significance. 

Miriam  lingered. 

"  I  boil  every  blessed  thing  after  he's  been  ...  if  that's 
any  indication  to  you." 

"  Boil  them  !  "  said  Miriam  vaguely  distressed  and  ponder- 
ing over  Mr.  Leyton  standing  active  and  aseptic  between 
her  and  some  horror  .  .  .  something  infectious  ...  it  must 
be  that  awful  mysterious  thing  .  .  .  how  awful  for  Mr. 
Leyton  to  have  to  stop  his  teeth. 


i  in:  ti;  N  n  EL 

-  Boil  Yin  "  he  chuckled  knowingly. 

"  Why  on  earth?  "  she  asked. 

"Well  — there  you  are"  said  Mr.  Leyton  — " that's  all 
I  can  tell  you.     I  boil  'em." 

••  Crikey  "  said  Miriam  half  in  response  and  halt  in  com- 
ment <>n  his  falsetto  laugh,  as  she  made  for  the  door.  "  ( )h( 
hut   1  say,  1  don't  understand  your  boiling  apparatus,  Mr. 

Leyton." 

''•  All  right,  don't  you  worry.  I'll  set  it  all  going  and 
shove  the  things  in.  You've  only  to  turn  off  the  gas  and 
wipe  'em.     I  daresay  1  shall  have  time  to  do  them  myself." 


ii 


When  she  had  prepared  for  Mr.  Hancock's  first  after- 
noon patient  Miriam  sat  down  at  her  crowded  table  in  a 
heavy  drowse.  No  sound  came  from  the  house  or  from 
the  den.  The  strip  of  sky  above  the  blank  wall  opposite 
her  window  was  an  even  cold  grey.  There  was  nothing 
to  mark  the  movement  of  the  noisy  wind.  The  room  was 
I  and  stuffy.  Shivering  as  she  moved,  she  glanced 
round  at  the  lamp.  It  was  well  trimmed.  The  yellow  flame 
was  at  its  broadest.  The  radiator  glared.  The  warmth  did 
not  reach  her.  She  was  cold  to  the  waist,  her  feet  without 
feeling  on  the  strip  of  linoleum;  her  knees  protruding  into 
the  window  space  felt  as  if  they  were  in  cold  water.  Un- 
arms crept  and  flushed  with  cold  at  every  movement,  strips 
of  cold  wri^t  disgusted  her,  showing  beyond  her  skimpy 
sleeves  and  leading  to  the  hopelessness  of  her  purplish  red 
hands  swollen  and  clammy  with  cold.  Tier  hot  head  and 
flushed  cheeks  begged  for  fresh  air.  Warm  rooms,  with 
carpd-  and  tire-;  an  even,  airy  warmth.  .  .  .  There  were 
pie  who  could  he  in  this  ^ort  of  cold  and  be  active, 
with  cool  faces  and  warm  hands,  even  just  after  lunch. 
I:    Mi     Leyton  were  here  he  would  be  briskly  entering  up 


THE   TUNNEL  69 

the  books  —  perhaps  with  a  red  nose  ;  but  very  brisk.  He 
was  finishing  Buck  off ;  briskly,  not  even  talking.  Mr. 
Hancock  would  be  working  swiftly  at  well  up-to-date  ac- 
counts, without  making  a  single  mistake.  Where  had  he 
sat  doing  all  those  pages  of  beautiful  spidery  book-keeping? 
Mr.  Orly  would  be  rushing  things  through.  What  a  drama. 
He  knew  it.  He  knew  he  had  earned  his  rest  by  the  fire 
.  .  .  doing  everything,  making  and  building  the  practice 
.  .  .  people  waiting  outside  the  surgery  with  basins  for  him 
to  rush  out  and  be  sick.  Her  sweet  inaccurate  help  in  the 
fine  pointed  writing  on  cheap  paper  .  .  .  the  two  cheap 
rooms  they  started  in.  .  .  .  The  Wreck  of  the  Mary  Glou- 
cester ..."  and  never  a  doctor's  brougham  to  help  the 
missis  unload."  They  had  been  through  everything  to- 
gether ...  it  was  all  there  with  them  now  .  .  .  rushing 
down  the  street  in  the  snow  without  an  overcoat  to  get 
her  the  doctor.  They  were  wise  and  sweet;  in  life  and 
wise  and  sweet.  They  had  gone  out  and  would  be  back 
for  tea.  Perhaps  they  had  gone  out.  Everything  was  so 
quiet.  Two  hours  of  cold  before  tea.  Putting  in  order 
the  materials  for  the  gold  and  tin  she  propped  her  elbows 
on  the  table  and  rested  her  head  against  her  hands  and 
closed  her  eyes.  There  was  a  delicious  drowsiness  in  her 
head  but  her  back  was  tired.  She  rose  and  wandered 
through  the  deserted  hall  into  the  empty  waiting  room.  The 
clear  blaze  of  a  coal  fire  greeted  her  at  the  doorway  and  her 
cold  feet  hurried  in  on  to  the  warm  Turkey  carpet.  The 
dark  oak  furniture  and  the  copper  bowls  and  jugs  stood  in  a 
glow  of  comfort.  From  the  center  of  the  great  littered 
table  a  bowl  of  daffodils  asserted  the  movement  of  the 
winter  and  pointed  forward  and  away  from  the  winter 
stillness  of  the  old  room.  The  long  faded  rich  crimson 
rep  curtains  obscured  half  the  width  of  each  high  window 
and  the  London  light  screened  by  the  high  opposing  houses 


7o  THE    TUNNEL 

fill  dimly  on  the  dingy  books  and  periodicals  scattered 
about  the  table.  Miriam  stood  by  the  mantelpiece  her  feet 
deep  in  the  black  sheepskin  rug  and  held  out  her  hands 
towards  the  fire.  They  felt  cold  again  the  instant  she  with- 
drew thorn  from  the  blaze.  The  hall  clock  gonged  softly 
twice.  The  legal  afternoon  had  begun.  Anyone  finding 
her  in  here  now  would  think  she  was  idling.  She  glanced 
at  the  deep  dark  shabby  leather  armchair  near  by  and 
imagined  the  relief  that  would  come  to  her  whole  frame, 
if  she  could  relax  into  it  foi  five  undisturbed  minutes. 
The  ringing  of  the  front  door  bell  sent  her  hurrying  back 
to  her  room. 

The  sound  of  reading  came  from  the  den  —  a  word- 
mouthing  word-slurring  monotonous  drawl  —  thurrah- 
thurrah-thurrah ;  thurrah  thurrah  ...  a  single  beat,  on  and 
on,  the  words  looped  and  forced  into  it  without  any  dis- 
crimination, the  voice  dropping  uniformly  at  the  end  of  each 
sentence  .  .  .  thrah.  .  .  .  An  Early  Victorian  voice  giving 
reproachful  instruction  to  a  child  ...  a  class  of  board 
school  children  reciting.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  had  changed 
their  minds  about  going  out.  .  .  .  Miriam  sat  with  her 
hands  tucked  between  her  knees  musing  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  thin  sheets  of  tin  and  gold  .  .  .  extraordinary  to 
read  any  sort  of  text  like  that  .  .  .  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  it,  something  nice  and  good  .  .  .  listening  care- 
fully you  would  get  most  of  the  words.  It  would  be  bet- 
ter to  listen  to  than  a  person  who  read  with  intelligent 
modulations,  as  if  they  had  written  the  thing  themselves; 
like  some  men  read  .  .  .  and  irritatingly  intelligent  women 
.  .  .  who  knew  they  were  intelligent.  But  there  ought  to 
be  clear  .  .  .  enunciation.  Not  expression  —  that  was  like 
commenting  as  you  read ;  getting  at  the  person  you  were 
reading  to  .  .  .  who  might  not  want  to  comment  in  the 
same  way.     Reading,  with  expression,  really  hadn't  any  ex- 


THE   TUNNEL  71 

pression.  How  wonderful  —  of  course.  Mrs.  Orly's  read- 
ing had  an  expression;  a  shape.  It  was  exactly  like  the 
way  they  looked  at  things;  exactly;  everything  was  there; 
all  the  things  they  agreed  about,  and  the  things  he  admired 
in  her  .  .  .  things  that  by  this  time  she  knew  he  admired. 
.  .  .  She  was  conscious  of  these  things  .  .  .  that  was  the 
difference  between  her  and  her  sister,  who  had  exactly  the 
same  things  but  had  never  been  admired  .  .  .  standing  side 
by  side  exactly  alike,  the  sister  like  a  child  —  clear  with  a 
sharp  fresh  edge;  Mrs.  Orly  with  a  different  wisdom  .  .  . 
softened  and  warm  and  blurred  .  .  .  conscious,  and  always 
busy  distracting  your  attention,  but  with  clear  eyes  like  a 
child,  too. 

12 

Presently  the  door  opened  quietly  and  Mrs.  Orly  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  "  Miss  Hens'n  "  she  whispered  urgently. 
Miriam  turned  to  meet  her  flushed  face.  "  Oh  Miss 
Hens'n  "  she  pursued  absently,  "  if  Mudie's  send  d'you  mind 
lookin'  and  choosin'  us  something  nice  ?  " 

"  Oh  "  said  Miriam  provisionally  with  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Orly  closed  the  door  quietly  and  advanced  con- 
fidently with  deprecating  bright  wheedling  eyes.  "  Isn't  it 
tahsome  "  she  said  conversationally.  "  Ro's  asleep  and  the 
carriage  is  comin'  round  at  half  past.     Isn't  it  tahsome?  " 

"  Can't  you  send  it  back?  " 

"  I  want  him  to  go  out ;  I  think  the  drive  will  do  him 
good.     I  say,  d'you  mind  just  lookin' — at  the  books?  " 

"  No,  I  will ;  but  how  shall  I  know  what  to  keep  ?  Is 
there  a  list?" 

Mrs.  Orly  looked  embarrassed.  "  I've  got  a  list  some- 
where "  she  said  hurriedly,  "  but  I  can't  find  it." 

"  I'll  do  my  best  "  said  Miriam. 

"  You  know  —  anythin'  historical  .  .  .  there's  one  I  put 


:2  -  TH  E   TUNN  EL 

down  'The  Sorrow-  of  a   Young  Queen.'     Keep  that  if 
they  send  it  and  anything  else  you  think." 

"  Is  there  anything  to  go  hack?" 

'•  Yes,  I'll  bring  them  out.  We've  been  reading  an  awful 
one  —  awful." 

Miriam  began  fingering  her  gold  foil.  Mrs.  Orly  was 
going  to  expect  her  to  he  shocked.  .  .  . 

"  By  that  awful  man  Zola.  .  .  ." 

"<  ih  yes"  said  Miriam,  dryly. 

"  I  lave  you  read  any  of  his?  " 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam  carefully. 

"  Have  you?     Aren't  they  shockin'?  " 

"  Well  I  don't  know.  I  thought  '  Lourdes  '  was  simply 
wonderful." 

"  Is  that  a  nice  one  —  what's  it  ahout?  " 

"Oh  you  know  —  it's  about  the  Madonna  of  Lourdes, 
the  miracles,  in  the  south  of  France.  It  begins  with  a 
crowded  trainload  of  sick  people  going  down  through  France 
on  a  very  hot  day  .  .  .  it's  simply  stupendous  .  .  .  you 
feel  you're  in  the  train,  you  go  through  it  all  " —  she  turned 
away  and  looked  through  the  window  overcome  ..."  and 
there's  a  thing  called  '  La  Reve  '  "  she  went  on  incoherently 
with  a  break  in  her  voice  "  about  an  embroideress  and  a  man 
called  IVIicien  —  it's  simply  the  most  lovely  thing." 

Mr>.  (  )rly  came  near  to  the  table. 

"  You  understand  about  books  don't  you,"  she  said  wist- 
fully. 

>h  no  "  said  Miriam.     "  I've  hardly  read  anything." 

"  I  wish  you'd  put  those  two  down." 
I  don't  know  the  names  of  the  translations,"  announced 
Miriam  with  conceited  solicitude. 

A  long  loud  yawn  resounded  through  the  door. 

"  Better,  boysie?"  asked  Mrs.  Orly  turning  anxiously  to- 
ward- the  open  door. 


THE    TUNNEL  73 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Orly  cheerfully. 

"  I  am  glad,  boy  —  I'll  get  my  things  on  —  the  carriage '11 
be  here  in  a  minute." 

She  departed  at  a  run  and  Mr.  Orly  came  in  and  sat 
heavily  down  in  a  chair  set  against  the  slope  of  the  wall 
close  by  and  facing  Miriam. 

"  Phoo  "  he  puffed,  "  I've  been  taking  phenacetin  all  day ; 
you  don't  get  heads  do  you?  " 

Miriam  smiled  and  began  preparing  a  reply. 

"  How's  it  coming  in?     Totting  up,  eh?  " 

"  I  think  so  "  said  Miriam  uneasily. 

"What's  it  totting  up  to  this  month?     Any  idea?" 

"  No ;  I  can  see  if  you  like." 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind.  .  .  .  Mrs.  O's  been  reading 
.  .  .  phew  !     You're  a  lit'ry  young  lady  —  d'you  know  that 

French      chap  —  Zola  —  Emmil      Zola "     Mr.      Orly 

glanced  suspiciously. 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam. 

"Like  'im?" 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam  firmly. 

"  Well  —  it's  a  matter  of  taste  and  fancy  "  sighed  Mr. 
Orly  heavily.  "  Chacun  a  son  gout  —  shake  an  ass  and  go, 
as  they  say.  One's  enough  for  me.  I  can't  think  why  they 
do  it  myself  —  sheer  well  to  call  a  spade  a  spade  sheer 
bestiality  those  French  writers  —  don't  ye  think  so,  eh?  " 

"  Well  no.  I  don't  think  I  can  accept  that  as  a  summary 
of  French  literature." 

"  Eh  well,  it's  beyond  me.  I  suppose  I'm  not  up  to  it. 
Behind  the  times.  Not  cultured  enough.  Not  cultured 
enough  I  guess.  Ready  dearest  ?  "  he  said  addressing  his 
wife  and  getting  to  his  feet  with  a  groan.  "  Miss  Hens'n's 
a  great  admirer  of  Emmil  Zola." 

"  She  says  some  of  his  books  are  pretty,  didn't  you,  Miss 
Hens'n.     It  isn't  fair  to  judge  from  one  book,  Ro." 


74  THE    TUNNEL 

'  No  my  love  no.     Quite  right.     Quite  right.     I'm  wrong 

—  no  doubt.  Getting  old  and  soft.  Things  go  on  too  fast 
for  me 

"  Don't  be  so  silly,  Ro." 

Drowsily  and  automatically  Miriam  went  on  rolling  tin 
and  gold  —  sliding  a  crisp  thick  foil  of  tin  from  the  pink 
tissue  paper  leaved  book  on  to  the  serviette  ...  a  firm 
metallic  crackle  .  .  .  then  a  silent  layer  of  thin  gold  .  .  . 
then  more  tin  .  .  .  adjusting  the  three  slippery  leaves  in 
perfect  superposition  without  touching  them  with  her 
hands,  cutting  the  final  square  into  three  strips,  with  the 
long  sharp  straight  bladed  scissors — the  edges  of  the  metal 
adhering  to  each  other  as  the  scissors  went  along  —  thinking 
again  with  vague  distant  dreamy  amusement  of  the  boy 
who  cut  the  rubber  tyre  to  mend  it  —  rolling  the  flat  strips 
with  a  fold  of  the  serviette,  deftly  until  they  turned  into 
neat  little  twisted  crinkled  rolls  —  wondering  how  she  had 
acquired  the  knack.  She  went  on  and  on  lazily,  unable  to 
stop,  sitting  hack  in  her  chair  and  working  with  outstretched 
arms,  until  a  small  fancy  soap  box  was  filled  with  the  twists 

—  enough  to  last  the  practice  for  a  month  or  two.  The 
sight  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  achievement  and  zeal.  Put- 
ting on  its  lid  she  placed  the  soap  box  on  the  second  chair. 
Lazily,  stupidly,  longing  for  tea  —  all  the  important  clerical 
work  left  undone,  Mr.  Orly's  surgery  to  clear  up  for  the  day 

—  still  she  was  working  in  the  practice.  She  glanced  ap- 
provingly at  the  soap  box  .  .  .  but  there  were  ages  to  pass 
before  tea.  She  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her  clock.  Had  the 
hall  clock  struck  three?  Bending  to  a  drawer  she  drew  out 
a  strip  of  amadou  —  offended  at  the  sight  of  her  red  wrist 
coming  out  of  the  harsh  cheap  black  sleeve  and  the  fingers 
bloated  by  cold.     They  looked  lifeless;  no  one  else's  hands 


THE   TUNNEL  75 

looked  so  lifeless.  Part  of  the  amadou  was  soft  and  warm 
to  her  touch,  part  hard  and  stringy.  Cutting  out  a  soft 
square  she  cut  it  rapidly  into  tiny  cubes  collecting  them 
in  a  pleasant  flummery  heap  on  the  blotting  paper  —  Mr. 
Hancock  should  have  those;  they  belonged  to  his  perfect 
treatment  of  his  patients ;  it  was  quite  just.  Cutting  a 
strip  of  the  harsher  part,  she  pulled  and  teased  it  into  com- 
parative softness  and  cut  it  up  into  a  second  pile  of  frag- 
ments. Amadou,  gold  and  tin  .  .  .  Japanese  paper?  A 
horrible  torpor  possessed  her.  Why  did  one's  head  get  into 
such  a  hot  fearful  state  before  tea?  .  .  .  grey  stone  wall 
and  the  side  of  the  projecting  glass  roofed  peak  of  Mr. 
Leyton's  surgery  .  .  .  grey  stone  wall  .  .  .  wall  .  .  .  rail- 
ings at  the  top  of  it  .  .  .  cold  —  a  cold  sky  ...  it  was  their 
time  —  nine  to  six  —  no  doubt  those  people  did  best  who 
thought  of  nothing  during  hours  but  the  work  —  cheerfully 

—  but  they  were  always  pretending  —  in  and  out  of  work 
hours  they  pretended.  There  was  something  wrong  in  them 
and  something  wrong  in  the  people  who  shirked.     La  —  te 

—  ta  —  te  —  te  —  ta,  she  hummed  searching  her  table  for 
relief.  Mr.  Hancock's  bell  sounded  and  she  fled  up  to  the 
warmth  of  his  room.  In  a  moment  Mudie's  cart  came  and 
the  maid  summoned  her.  There  was  a  pile  of  books  in  the 
hall.  .  .  .  She  glanced  curiously  at  the  titles  worried  with 
the  responsibility  — '  The  Sorrows  ' —  that  was  all  right. 
'  Secrets  of  a  Stormy  Court '  .  .  .  that  was  the  sort  of  thing 
..."  you  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear  "... 
one  day  she  must  explain  to  Mr.  Orly  that  that  was  really 
"  sousiere "  a  thing  to  hold  halfpence.  '  My  Reminis- 
cences '  by  Count  de  Something.  Perhaps  that  was  one  they 
had  put  down.  The  maid  presented  the  volumes  to  be  re- 
turned. Taking  them  Miriam  asked  her  to  ask  Mr.  Han- 
cock if  he  had  anything  to  change.  '  Cock  Lane  and  Com- 
mon Sense '  she  read  .  .  .  there  was  some  sort  of  argu- 


76  Til  1     T  UNN1   I. 

nu'iit  in  that  .  .  .  the  '  facts'  of  some  case  ...  it  would 
sneer  al  something,  some  popular  idea  ...  it  was  probably 
by  some  doctor  or  scientific  man  .  .  .  but  that  was  not  the 
book.  .  .  .  "The  Earth'  .  .  .  Emile  Zola.     She  flapped  the 

book  op<  i  and  hurriedly  read  a  few  phrases.  The  hall 
pulsated  triously.  She  Hushed  all  over  her  body. 
"There's  othing  for  Mr.  Hancock,  miss."  "All  right; 
these  can  g  »  and  these  arc  to  he  kept,"  die  -aid  indistinctly. 
Wandering  hack  to  her  room  she  repeated  the  phrases  in 
her  mind  in  French.  They  seemed  to  clear  up  and  take 
shelter — somehow  they  were  terse  and  acceptable  and  they 
were  secret  and  secure  —  but  English  people  ought  not  to 
read  them;  in  English.  It  was  —  outrageous.  English 
men.  The  French  man  had  written  them  simply  .  .  . 
French  logic  .  .  .  English  men  were  shy  and  suggestive 
about  these  tilings  —  either  that  or  breezy  .  .  .  "filth" 
which  was  almost  worse.  The  Orlys  ought  not  to  read  them 
at  all  ...  it  was  a  good  thing  the  book  was  out  of  the  house 
.  .  .  they  would  forget.  But  she  would  not  forget.  Her 
empty  room  glanced  with  a  strange  confused  sadness;  the 
clearing  up  upstairs  was  not  quite  done ;  but  she  could  not 
go  upstairs  again  yet.  Three-fifteen ;  the  afternoon  had 
turned  :  her  clock  was  a  little  slow  too.  The  warm  quiet 
empty  den  was  waiting  for  the  tea-tray.  Clearing  the  rem- 
nants from  her  table  she  sat  down  again.     The  heavy  still- 

-  of  the  house  closed  in.  .  .  .  She  opened  the  drawer  of 
stationery.  Various  kinds  of  notepaper  lay  slid  together 
in  confusion;  someone  had  been  fumbling  there.  The  cor- 
ondence  cards  propped  against  the  side  of  the  drawer 
would  never  stay  in  their  proper  places.  With  comatose 
meticulousness  she  put  the  whole  drawer  in  order,  replenish- 
ing it  from  a  drawer  of  reserve  packets,  until  it  was  so  full 
that    nothing   could    slide.      She    surveyed    the    result    with 

isf action;   and   shut   the   drawer.     She   would  tidy   one 


THE   TUNNEL  77 

drawer  every  afternoon.  .  .  .  She  opened  the  drawer  once 
more  and  looked  again.  To  keep  it  like  that  would  mean 
never  using  the  undermost  cards  and  notepaper.  That 
would  not  do  .  .  .  change  them  all  around  sometimes.  She 
sat  for  a  while  inertly  and  presently  lazily  roused  herself 
with  the  idea  of  going  upstairs.  Pausing  in  front  of  a  long 
three-shelved  what-not  filling  the  space  between  the  door 
and  the  narrow  many  drawered  specimen  case  that  stood 
next  her  table  she  idly  surveyed  its  contents.  Nothing 
but  piles  of  British  Dental  Journals,  Proceedings  of  the 
Odontological  Society,  circulars  from  the  Dental  Manu- 
facturing Companies.  Propping  her  elbows  on  the  upper 
shelf  of  the  what-not  she  stood  turning  leaves. 

14 

"Tea  up?" 

"  Don't  know  "  said  Miriam  irritably,  passing  the  open 
door.  He  could  see  she  had  only  just  come  down  and  could 
not  possibly  know.  The  soft  jingling  of  the  cups  shaken 
together  on  a  tray  by  labouring  footsteps  came  from  the 
basement  stairs.  Mr.  Leyton's  hurried  clattering  increased. 
Miriam  waited  impatiently  by  her  table.  The  maid  padded 
heavily  through  swinging  the  door  of  the  den  wide  with 
her  elbow.  When  she  had  retired,  Miriam  sauntered  warm 
and  happy  almost  before  she  was  inside  the  door  into  the 
den.  With  her  eyes  on  the  tea-tray  she  felt  the  afternoon 
expand.  ..."  There's  a  Burma  girl  a  settin'  and  I  know 
she  thinks  of  me."  ..."  Come  you  back  you  British  sol- 
dier, come  you  back  to  Mandalay."  Godfrey's  tune  was 
much  the  best ;  stiff,  like  the  words,  the  other  was  only  sing- 
song. Pushing  off  the  distraction  she  sat  down  near  the 
gently  roaring  blaze  of  the  gas  fire  in  a  low  little  chair, 
upholstered  in  cretonne  almost  patternless  with  age.  The 
glow  of  the  fire  went  through  and   through   her.     If   she 


78  Til  E    TUNNEL 

had  tea  at  once,  everything  would  be   richer  and   richer, 
but    things    would   move   on,    and    if    they    came   back    she 
would  have  finished  and  would  have  to  go.     The  face  of 
the  railway  clock  fixed  against  the  frontage  of  the  gallery 
at  the   far  end  of  the  room  said   four-fifteen.     They  had 
evidently  ordered  tea  to  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late  and 
might  be  in  any  minute  .  .  .  this  curious  feeling  that  the 
room  belonged  to  her  more  than  to  the  people  who  owned 
it,  so  that  they  were  always  intruders.  .  .  .  Leaving  with 
difficulty    the   little    feast   untouched  ...  a    Dundee    cake 
from  Buszards  ...  she  browsed  rapidly,  her  eyes  roam- 
ing   from    thing    to    thing  ...  the    shields    and    assegais 
grouped  upon  the  raised  dull  gold  papering  of  the  high  op- 
posite wall,  the  bright  beautiful  coloured  bead  skirts  spread 
out  amongst  curious  carved  tusks  and  weapons,  the  large 
cool  placid  gold  Buddha  reclining  below  them  with  his  chin 
on  his  hand  and  his  elbow  on  a  red  velvet  cushion,  on  the 
Japanese  cabinet;  the  Japanese  cupboard  fixed  above  Mrs. 
Orly's  writing  table,  the  fine  firm  carved  ivory  on  its  panels ; 
the  tall  vase  of  Cape  gooseberries  flaring  on  the  top  of  the 
cottage  piano  under  the  shadow  of  the  gallery;  the  gallery 
with  its  upper  mystery,  the  happy  clock  fastened  against 
its  lower  edge,  always  at  something  after   four,  the   door 
set  back  in  the  wall,  leading  into  her  far-away  midday  room, 
the  light  falling  from  the  long  high  frosted  window  along 
the  confusion  of  Mr.  Orly's  bench,  noisy  as  she  looked  at  it 
with  the  sound  of   metal  tools   falling  with   a  rattle,   the 
drone  and  rattle  of  the  motor  lathe,  Mr.  Orly's  cheerful 
hummings  and  whistlings,  the  bench  swept  down  the  length 
of  the  room  to  her  side  ...  the  movable  shaded  electric 
lamp;  Mr.  Orly's  African  tobacco  pouch  bunched  under- 
neath it  on  the  edge  of  the  bench  near  the  old  leather  arm- 
chair near  to  the  fire,  facing  the  assegais ;  the  glass-doored 
bookcase  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace,  the  strange  smooth 


THE   TUNNEL  79 

gold  on  the  strips  of  Burmese  wood  fastened  along  the 
shelves,  the  clear  brown  light  of  the  room  on  the  gold,  the 
curious  lettering  sweeping  across  the  gold. 

"Tea?     Good." 

Mr.  Leyton  pulled  up  a  chair  and  plumped  into  it  digging 
at  his  person  and  dragging  out  the  tails  of  his  coat  with  one 
hand,  holding  a  rumpled  newspaper  at  reading  length. 
When  his  coat-tails  were  free  he  scratched  his  head  and 
scrubbed  vigorously  at  his  short  brown  beard. 

'  You  had  tea  ?  "  he  said  to  Miriam's  motionlessness,  with- 
out looking  up. 

"  No  — let's  have  tea,"  said  Miriam.  Why  should  he  as- 
sume that  she  should  pour  out  the  tea.  .  .  . 

"  I  say  that's  a  nasty  one  "  said  Mr.  Leyton  hysterically 
and  began  reading  in  a  high  hysterical  falsetto. 

Miriam  began  pouring  out.  Mr.  Leyton  finished  his  pas- 
sage with  a  little  giggling  shriek  of  laughter  and  fumbled  for 
bread  and  butter  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  newspaper. 
Miriam  sipped  her  hot  tea.  The  room  darkled  in  the  silence. 
Everything  intensified.  She  glanced  impatiently  at  Mr.  Ley- 
ton's  bent  unconscious  form.  His  shirt  and  the  long  straight 
narrow  ends  of  his  tie  made  a  bulging  curve  above  his 
low-cut  waistcoat.  The  collar  of  his  coat  stood  away  from 
his  bent  neck  and  its  tails  were  bunched  up  round  his  hips. 
His  trousers  were  so  hitched  up  that  his  bent  knees  strained 
against  the  harsh  crude  Rope  Brothers  cloth.  The  ends  of 
his  trousers  peaked  up  in  front,  displaying  loose  rolls  of 
black  sock  and  the  whole  of  his  anatomical  walking-shoes. 
Miriam  heard  his  busily  masticating  jaws  and  dreaded  his 
operations  with  his  tea-cup.  A  wavering  hand  came  out 
and  found  the  cup  and  clasped  it  by  the  rim,  holding  it  at 
the  edge  of  the  lifted  newspaper.  She  busied  herself  with 
cutting  stout  little  wedges  of  cake.  Mr.  Leyton  sipped, 
gasping  after  each  loud  quilting  gulp ;  a  gasp,  and  the  sound 


8o  T  H  E    TU  N  N  !   L 

of  a  moustache  being  sucked  Mr.  Hancock's  showing  out 
bell  rang.  Mr.  Leyton  plunged  busily  round,  finishing  his 
cup  in  a  series  of  rapid  gulps.     "  Kike?"  he  said. 

"M"  said  Miriam,  "jolly  kike  —  did  you  finish  Mr. 
Buck?" 

"  More  or  less " 

"  1  >id  you  boil  the  remains?  " 

"  Boiled  every  blessed  thing  —  and  put   the  serviette   in 

k'l...lir     • 

Miriam  hid  her  relief  and  poured  him  out  another  cup. 

Mr.  Hancock  came  in  through  the  open  door  and  quickly 
up  to  the  tea-tray.  Pouring  out  a  cup  he  held  the  teapot 
suspended,  "  another  cup?  " 

"  No  thanks,  not  just  at  present"  said  Miriam  getting  to 
her  feet  with  a  morsel  of  cake  in  her  fingers. 

"  Plenty  of  time  for  my  things  "  said  Mr.  Hancock  sitting 
down  in  Mr.  Orly's  chair  with  his  tea,  his  flat  compact 
slightly  wrinkled  and  square-toed  patent  leather  shoes 
gleamed  from  under  the  rims  of  his  soft  dark  grey  beauti- 
fullv  cut  trousers  with  a  pleasant  shine  as  he  sat  back  com- 
fortable and  unlounging.  with  crossed  knees  in  the  deep 
chair. 

Mr.  Leyton  had  got  to  his  feet. 

"Busy?"  he  said  rapidly  munching.  "I  say  I've  had 
that  man  Ruck  this  afternoon." 

"Oh  yes"  said  Mr.  Hancock  brushing  a  crumb  from 
his  kn 

"  You  know  —  the  case  I  told  you  about." 

'•  (  >h  "  said  Mr.  Hancock  with  a  clear  glance  and  a 

slight  tightening  of  the  face. 

Miriam  made  for  the  door.  Mr.  Hancock  was  not  en- 
couraging the  topic.  Mr.  Leyton's  cup  came  down  with  a 
clatter.     "  I'm  fearfully  rushed  "  he  said.     "  I  must  be  off," 


THE   TUNNEL  81 

He  caught  Miriam  up  in  the  hall.  "  I  say  tea  must  have 
been  fearfully  late.  I've  got  to  get  down  to  headquarters 
by  five  sharp." 

"  You  go  on  first  "  said  Miriam  standing  aside. 

Mr.  Leyton  fled  up  through  the  house  three  steps  at  a 
time. 

15 

When  she  came  down  again  intent  on  her  second  cup  of 
tea  in  the  empty  brown  den  a  light  had  been  switched  on, 
driving  the  dark  afternoon  away.  The  crayon  drawings 
behind  the  piano  shone  out  on  the  walls  of  the  dark  square 
space  under  the  gallery  as  she  hesitated  in  the  doorway. 
There  was  someone  in  the  dim  brightness  of  the  room. 
She  turned  noiselessly  towards  her  table. 

"  Come  and  have  some  more  tea  Miss  Hens'n." 

Miriam  went  in  with  alacrity.  The  light  was  on  in  the 
octagonal  brass  framed  lantern  that  hung  from  the  sky- 
light and  shed  a  soft  dim  radiance  through  its  old  glass. 
Mrs.  Orly  still  in  her  bonnet  and  fur-lined  cape  was  sitting 
drinking  tea  in  the  little  old  cretonne  chair.  She  raised  a 
tired  flushed  face  and  smiled  brightly  at  Miriam  as  she  came 
down  the  room. 

"  I'm  dying  for  another  cup ;  I  had  to  fly  off  and  clear 
up  Mr.  Hancock's  things." 

"  Mr.  Hancock  busy  ?  Have  some  cake,  it's  rather  a 
nice  one."     Mrs.  Orly  cut  a  stout  little  wedge. 

Clearing  away  the  newspaper  Miriam  took  possession  of 
Mr.  Leyton's  chair. 

Mr.  Orly  swung  in  shutting  the  door  behind  him  and 
down  the  room  peeling  off  his  frock  coat  as  he  came. 

"Tea  darling?" 

"  Well  m'love,  since  you're  so  pressing." 


82  THE   TUNNEL 

Mr.  Orly  switched  on  the  lamp  on  the  corner  of  the 
bench  and  subsided  into  his  chair  his  huge  bulk  poised 
lightly  and  alertly,  one  vast  leg  across  the  other  knee. 

"  'Scuse  my  shirt-sleeves  Miss  Hens'n.  I  say  I've  got  a 
new  song  —  like  to  try  it  presently  or  are  ye  too  busy?  " 

Poised  between  the  competing  interests  of  many  worlds 
Miriam  basked  in  the  friendly  tones. 

"  Well  I  have  got  rather  a  fearful  lot  of  things  to  do." 

"  Come  and  try  it  now,  d'ye  mind?  " 

"  Have  your  tea  Ro,  darling." 

"  Right  my  love,  right,  right,  always  right  —  Hancock 
busy?" 

"  Yes ;  he  has  two  more  patients  after  this  one." 

"  Marvellous  man." 

"  Mr.  Hancock  never  gets  rushed  or  flurried  does  he  ? 
He's  always  been  the  same  ever  since  we've  known  him." 

"  He's  very  even  and  steady  outwardly  "  said  Miriam 
indifferently. 

"  You  think  it's  only  outward?  " 

"  Well  I  mean  he's  really  frightfully  sensitive." 

"Just  so;  it's  his  coolness  carries  him  through,  self-com- 
mand, I  wish  I'd  got  it." 

"  You'd  miss  other  things  boysie ;  you  can't  have  it  both 
ways." 

"  Right  m'love  —  right.  I  don't  understand  him.  D'you 
think  anyone  does,  Miss  Hens'n  —  really —  I  mean.  D'you 
understand  him?  " 

"  Well  you  see  I  haven't  known  him  very  long " 

"  Xo  —  but  you  come  from  the  same  district  and  know 
his  relatives." 

"  The  same  Berkshire  valley  and  his  cousins  happened  to 
be  my  people's  oldest  friends." 

"  Well  don't  ye  see,  that  makes  all  the  difference  —  I  say 
I  heard  a  splendid  one  this  afternoon.     D'you  think  I  could 


THE   TUNNEL  83 

tell  Miss  Hens'n  that  one  Nelly  ?  —  you're  not  easily  shocked, 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I've  never  been  shocked  in  my  life  "  said  Miriam  get- 
ting to  her  feet. 

"  Must  ye  go  ?     Shall  we  just  try  this  over  ?  " 

"  Well  if  it  isn't  too  long." 

"  Stop  and  have  a  bit  of  dinner  with  us  can  ye?  " 

Miriam  made  her  excuse,  pleading  an  engagement  and  sat 
down  to  the  piano.  The  song  was  a  modern  ballad  with  an 
easy  impressive  accompaniment,  following  the  air.  The 
performance  went  off  easily  and  well,  Mr.  Orly's  clear 
trained  baritone  ringing  out  persuasively  into  the  large 
room.  Weathering  a  second  invitation  to  spend  the  even- 
ing she  got  away  to  her  room. 

16 

Her  mind  was  alight  with  the  sense  of  her  many  beckon- 
ing interests,  aglow  with  fulness  of  life.  The  thin  piercing 
light  cast  upon  her  table  by  the  single  five  candle  power 
bulb,  drawn  low  and  screened  by  a  green  glass  shade  was 
warm  and  friendly.  She  attacked  her  letters,  despatching 
the  appointments  swiftly  and  easily  in  a  bold  convincing 
hand  and  drafted  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Hermann  that  she  carried 
with  a  glow  of  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Hancock's  room.  When 
his  room  was  cleared  in  preparation  for  his  last  patient  it 
was  nearly  six  o'clock.  She  began  entering  his  day-book  in 
the  ledger.  The  boy  coming  up  for  the  letters  brought  two 
dentures  to  be  packed  and  despatched  by  registered  post 
from  Vere  Street  before  six  o'clock.  "  They'll  be  ready 
by  the  time  you've  got  your  boots  on  "  said  Miriam  and 
packed  her  cases  brilliantly  in  a  mood  of  deft-handed  con- 
centration. Jimmy  clattered  up  the  stairs  as  she  was  stamp- 
ing the  labels.  When  he  fled  with  them  she  gave  a  general 
sigh  and  surveyed  the  balance  of  her  day  with  a  responsible 


84  THE   TUNNEL 

cheerful  wicked  desperation;  her  mind  leaping  forward  to 
her  evening.  The  day  books  would  not  be  done,  even  Mr. 
Hancock's  would  have  to  go  up  unentered;  she  had  not  the 
courage  to  investigate  the  state  of  the  cash  book ;  Mr.  Ley- 
ton's  room  was  ready  for  the  morning;  she.  ran  through 
to  Mr.  Orly's  room  and  performed  a  rapid  perfunctory 
tidying  up;  many  little  things  were  left;  his  depleted  stores 
must  be  refilled  in  the  morning;  she  glanced  at  his  appoint- 
ment book,  no  patient  so  far  until  ten.  She  left  the  room 
with  her  everyday  guilty  consciousness  that  hardly  anything 
in  it  was  up  to  the  level  of  Mr.  Hancock's  room  .  .  .  look 
after  Hancock,  I'm  used  to  fending  for  myself  .  .  .  but 
he  knew  she  did  not  do  her  utmost  to  keep  the  room  going. 
There  were  times  when  he  ran  short  of  stores  in  the  midst 
of  a  sitting.     That  could  be  avoided. 

17 

When  Miriam  entered  his  room  at  half  past  six  Mr. 
Hancock  was  switching  off  the  lights  about  the  chair.  A 
single  light  shone  over  his  desk.     The  fire  was  nearly  out. 

"Still  here?" 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam  switching  on  a  light  over  the  instru- 
ment cabinet. 

"  I  should  leave  those  things  to-night  if  I  were  you." 

"  It  isn't  very  late." 

She  could  go  on,  indefinitely,  in  this  confident  silence, 
preparing  for  the  next  day.  He  sat  making  up  his  day- 
book and  would  presently  come  upon  Mrs.  Hermann's  let- 
ter. As  long  as  he  was  there  the  day  lingered.  Its  light 
had  left  the  room.  The  room  was  colourless  and  dark 
except  where  the  two  little  brilliant  circles  of  light  made 
bright  patches  of  winter  evening.  Their  two  figures  quietly 
at  work  meant  the  quiet  and  peace  of  the  practice ;  the 
full,  ended  day,  to  begin  again  to-morrow  in  broad  daylight 


THE    TUNNEL  85 

in  this  same  room.  The  room  was  full  of  their  quiet  con- 
tinuous companionship.  It  was  getting  very  cold.  He 
would  be  going  soon. 

He  stood  up,  switching  off  his  light.  "  That  will  do  ex- 
cellently "  he  said  with  an  amused  smile,  placing  Mrs.  Her- 
mann's letter  on  the  flap  of  the  instrument  cabinet  and  wan- 
dering into  the  gloomy  spaces. 

"  Well.     I'll  say  good  night." 

"  Good  night  "  murmured  Miriam. 

Leaving  the  dried  instruments  in  a  heap  with  a  wash 
leather  flung  over  them  she  gathered  up  the  books  switched 
the  room  into  darkness,  felt  its  promise  of  welcome  and 
trotted  downstairs  through  the  quiet  house.  The  front 
door  shut  quietly  on  Mr.  Hancock  as  she  reached  the  hall. 
She  flew  to  get  away.  In  five  minutes  the  books  were  in 
the  safe  and  everything  locked  up.  The  little  mirror  on 
the  wall,  scarcely  lit  by  the  single  globe  over  the  desk  just 
directed  the  angle  of  her  hat  and  showed  the  dim  strange 
eager  outline  of  her  unknown  face.  She  fled  down  the  hall 
past  Mr.  Leyton's  room  and  the  opening  to  the  forgotten 
basement,  between  the  heavy  closed  door  of  Mr.  Orly's 
room  and  the  quiet  scrolled  end  of  the  balustrade  and  past 
the  angle  of  the  high  dark  clock  staring  with  its  unlit  face 
down  the  length  of  the  hall,  between  the  high  oak  chest 
and  the  flat  oak  coffer  confronting  each  other  in  the  glooms 
thrown  by  Mrs.  Orly's  tall  narrow  striped  Oriental  curtains ; 
she  saw  them  standing  in  straight  folds,  the  beautiful 
height  and  straightness  of  their  many  coloured  stripes,  as 
they  must  have  been  before  the  outside  stripe  of  each  had 
been  cut  and  used  as  a  tie-up;  and  was  out  beyond  the 
curtains  in  the  brightly  lit  square  facing  the  door.  The 
light  fell  on  the  rich  edge  of  the  Turkey  carpet  and  the 
groove  of  the  bicycle  stand.  In  the  corner  stood  the  blue 
and  white  pipe,  empty  of  umbrellas.     Her  hand  grasped  the 


86  THE    TUNNEL 

machine-turned  edge  of  the  small  flat  circular  knoh  that 
released  the  door  .  .  .  hrahma  ;  that  was  the  word,  at  last. 
.  .  .  The  door  opened  and  closed  with  its  familiar  heavy 
wooden  firmness,  neatly,  with  a  little  rattle  of  its  chain. 
Her  day  scrolled  up  behind  her.  She  halted,  trusted  and 
responsible,  for  a  long  second  in  the  light  flooding  the  steps 
from  behind  the  door. 

The  pavement  was  under  her  feet  and  the  sparsely  lamp- 
lit  night  all  round  her.  She  restrained  her  eager  steps  to  a 
walk.  The  dark  houses  and  the  blackness  between  the 
lamps  were  elastic  about  her. 


CHAPTER   IV 


WHEN  she  came  to  herself  she  was  in  the  Strand. 
She  walked  on  a  little  and  turned  aside  to  look  at 
a  jeweller's  window  and  consider  being  in  the  Strand  at 
night.  Most  of  the  shops  were  still  open.  The  traffic  was 
still  in  full  tide.  The  jeweller's  window  repelled  her.  It 
was  very  yellow  with  gold,  all  the  objects  close  together 
and  each  one  bearing  a  tiny  label  with  the  price.  There 
was  a  sort  of  commonness  about  the  Strand,  not  like  the 
cheerful  commonness  of  Oxford  Street,  more  like  the  City 
with  its  many  sudden  restaurants.  She  walked  on.  But 
there  were  theatres  also,  linking  it  up  with  the  west-end 
and  streets  leading  off  it  where  people  like  Bob  Greville 
had  chambers.  It  was  the  tailing  off  of  the  west-end  and 
the  beginning  of  a  deep  dark  richness  that  began  about  Holy- 
well. Mysterious  important  churches  crowded  in  amongst 
little  brown  lanes  .  .  .  the  little  dark  brown  lane.  .  .  .  She 
wondered  what  she  had  been  thinking  since  she  left  Wim- 
pole  Street  and  whether  she  had  come  across  Trafalgar 
Square  without  seeing  it  or  round  by  some  other  way.  They 
were  fighting;  sending  out  suffocation  and  misery  into  the 
surrounding  air  .  .  .  she  stopped  close  to  the  two  upright 
balanced  threatening  bodies,  almost  touching  them.  The 
men  looked  at  her.  "  Don't "  she  said  imploringly  and 
hurried  on  trembling.  ...  It  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  not  seen  fighting  since  a  day  in  her  childhood  when 

87 


88  Til  E   TUNNEL 

she  had  wondered  at  the  swaying  bodies  and  sickened  at 
the  thud  of  a  fist  against  a  check.  The  feeling  was  the  same 
to-day,  the  longing  to  explain  somehow  to  the  men  that 
they  could  not  tight.  .  .  .  Half-past  seven.  Perhaps  there 
would  not  he  an  A. B.C.  so  far  down.  It  would  he  impossi- 
ble to  get  a  meal.  Perhaps  the  girls  would  have  some  coffee. 
An  A..B.C.  appeared  suddenly  at  her  side,  its  panes  misty 
in  the  cold  air.  She  went  confidently  in.  It  seemed  nearly 
full  of  men.  Never  mind,  city  men;  with  a  wisdom  of 
their  own  which  kept  them  going  and  did  not  afreet  any- 
thing, all  alike  and  thinking  the  same  thoughts;  far  away 
from  anything  she  thought  or  knew.  She  walked  con- 
fidently down  the  centre,  her  plaid-lined  golf-cape  thrown 
back  her  small  brown  boat-shaped  felt  hat  suddenly  hot 
on  her  head  in  the  warmth.  The  shop  turned  at  a  right 
angle  showing  a  large  open  fire  with  a  fireguard,  and  a  cat 
sitting  on  the  hearthrug  in  front  of  it.  She  chose  a  chair 
at  a  small  table  in  front  of  the  fire.  The  velvet  settees 
at  the  sides  of  the  room  were  more  comfortable.  But  it 
was  for  such  a  little  while  to-night  and  it  was  not  one  of 
her  own  A.B.C.s.  She  felt  as  she  sat  down  as  if  she  were 
the  guest  of  the  city  men  and  ate  her  boiled  egg  and  roll 
and  butter  and  drank  her  small  coffee  in  that  spirit-gazing 
into  the  fire  and  thinking  her  own  thoughts  unresentful 
of  the  uncongenial  scraps  of  talk  that  now  and  again  pene- 
trated her  thoughts ;  the  complacent  laughter  of  the  men 
amazed  her;  their  amazing  unconsciousness  of  the  things 
that  were  written  all  over  them. 

The  fire  blazed  into  her  face.  She  dropped  her  cape 
over  the  back  of  her  chair  and  sat  in  the  glow ;  the  small 
pat  of  butter  was  not  enough  for  the  large  roll.  Pictures 
came  out  of  the  fire,  the  strange  moment  in  her  room, 
the  smashing  of  the  plaque,  the  lamplit  den;  Mr.  Orly's 
song,  the  strange  rich  difficult  day  and  now  her  untouched 


THE   TUNNEL  89 

self  here,  free,  unseen  and  strong,  the  strong  world  of 
London  all  round  her,  strong  free  untouched  people,  in 
a  dark  lit  wilderness  happy  and  miserable  in  their  own  way, 
going  about  the  streets  looking  at  nothing,  thinking  about 
no  special  person  or  thing,  as  long  as  they  were  there,  being 
in  London. 

Even  the  business  people  who  went  about  intent,  going 
to  definite  places  were  in  the  secret  of  London  and  looked 
free.  The  expression  of  the  collar  and  hair  of  many  of 
them  said  they  had  homes.  But  they  got  away  from  them. 
No  one  who  had  never  been  alone  in  London  was  quite 
alive.  .  .  .  I'm  free  —  I've  got  free  —  nothing  can  ever  alter 
that  she  thought,  gazing  wide-eyed  into  the  fire,  between 
fear  and  joy.  A  strange  familiar  pang  gave  the  place  a 
sort  of  consecration.  A  strength  was  piling  up  within  her. 
She  would  go  out  unregretfully  at  closing  time  and  up 
through  wonderful  unknown  streets,  not  her  own  streets 
till  she  found  Holborn  and  then  up  and  round  through  the 
Squares. 

2 

On  the  hall  table  lay  a  letter  .  .  .  from  Alma;  under 
the  shadow  of  the  bronze  soldier  leaning  on  his  gun. 
Miriam  gathered  it  up  swiftly.  No  one  knew  her  here  .  .  . 
no  past  and  no  future  .  .  .  coming  in  and  out  unknown,  in 
the  present  secret  wonder.  Pausing  for  a  moment  near  the 
smeary  dimly-lit  marble  slab  the  letter  out  of  sight  she 
held  this  consciousness.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  house 
...  its  huge  high  thick  walls  held  all  the  lodgers  secure 
and  apart,  fixed  in  richly  enclosed  rooms  in  the  heart  of 
London ;  secure  from  all  the  world  that  was  not  London, 
flying  through  space,  swinging  along  on  a  planet  spread 
with  continents  —  Londoners.  Alma's  handwriting,  the 
same  as  it  had  been  at  school  only  a  little  larger  and  firmer, 


9o  THE   TUNNEL 

broke  into  that.  Of  course  Alma  had  answered  the  post- 
card ...  it  had  been  an  impulse,  a  cry  of  triumph  after 
years  of  groping-  about.  But  it  was  like  pulling  a  string. 
Silly.  And  now  this  had  happened.  But  it  was  only  a 
touch,  only  a  finger  laid  on  the  secret  hall  table  that  no 
one  had  seen.  The  letter  need  not  be  answered.  Out  of 
sight  is  seemed  to  have  gone  away  .  .  .  destroyed  unopened 
it  would  be  as  if  it  had  never  come  and  everything  would 
be  as  before.  .  .  .  Enough,  more  than  enough  without  writ- 
ing to  Alma.  An  evening  paper  boy  was  shouting  rau- 
cously in  the  distance.  The  letter-box  brought  his  voice  into 
the  hall  as  he  passed  the  door.  Miriam  moved  on  up  the 
many  flights. 

3 

Upstairs  she  found  herself  eagerly  tearing  open  the  letter. 
..."  I've  just  heard  from  an  old  schoolfellow  she  heard 
herself  saying  to  the  girls  in  Kennett  Street.  There  was 
something  exciting  in  the  letter  ...  at  the  end  Alma  Wil- 
son (officially  Mrs.  G.  Wilson)  .  .  .  strange  people  in  the 
room  .  .  .  Alma  amongst  them ;  looking  out  from  amongst 
dread  fulness.  Married.  She  had  gone  in  amongst  the 
crowd  already  —  forever.  How  clever  of  her  .  .  .  de- 
ceitful .  .  .  that  little  spark  of  Alma  in  her  must  have  been 
deceitful  .  .  .  sly,  at  some  moment.  Alma's  eyes  glanced 
at  her  with  a  new  more  preoccupied  and  covered  look  .  .  . 
she  used  to  go  sometimes  to  theatres  with  large  parties 
of  people  with  money  and  the  usual  dresses  who  never 
thought  anything  about  anything  .  .  .  perhaps  that  was  part 
of  the  reason,  perhaps  Alma  was  more  that  than  she  had 
thought  .  .  .  marrying  in  the  sort  of  way  she  went  to 
theatre-parties  —  clever.  The  letter  was  full  of  excitement 
.  .  .  Alma  leaping  up  from  her  marriage  and  clutching  at 
her  .  .  .  not  really  married ;  dancing  to  some  tune  in  some 


THE   TUNNEL  91 

usual  way  like  all  those  women  and  jumping  up  in  a  way 
that  fizzled  and  could  not  be  kept  up.  .  .  . 

"  You  dear  old  thing !  .  .  .  fell  out  of  the  sky  this  morn- 
ing ..  .  to  fill  pages  with  '  you  dear  old  thing !'"...  see 
you  at  once !  Immediately !  .  .  .  come  up  to  town  and  meet 
you  .  .  .  some  sequestered  tea  shop  .  .  .  our  ancient  heads 
together  .  .  .  tell  you  all  that  has  happened  to  me  since 
those  days  .  .  .  next  Thursday  ...  let  you  know  how 
really  really  rejoiced  I  am  .  .  .  break  the  very  elderly  fact 
that  I  am  married  .  .  .  but  that  makes  no  difference.  .  .  ." 
That  would  not  be  so  bad  —  seeing  Alma  alone  in  a  tea 
shop  in  the  west  end;  in  a  part  of  the  new  life,  that  would 
be  all  right ;  nothing  need  happen,  nothing  would  be  touched, 
"  all  I  have  had  the  temerity  to  do  .  .  ."  what  did  that 
mean? 

4 

Unpinning  the  buckram-stiffened  black  velvet  band  from 
her  neck,  she  felt  again  with  a  rush  of  joy  that  her  day  was 
beginning  and  moved  eagerly  about  amongst  the  strange 
angles  and  shadows  of  her  room,  the  rich  day  all  about  her. 
Somebody  had  put  up  her  little  varnished  oak  bookshelf 
just  in  the  right  place,  the  lower  shelf  in  a  line  with  the 
little  mantelpiece.  When  the  gas  bracket  was  swung 
out  from  the  wall  the  naked  flame  shone  on  the  backs 
of  the  indiscriminately  arranged  books  .  .  .  the  calf-bound 
Shakespeare  could  be  read  now  comfortably  in  the  im- 
mense fresh  dark  night  under  the  gas  flame ;  the  Perne's 
memorial  edition  of  Tennyson.  .  .  .  She  washed  her  face 
and  hands  in  hard  cold  water  at  the  little  rickety  washstand, 
yellow-grained  rich  beloved,  drying  them  on  the  thin  holey 
face  towel  hurriedly.  Lying  neatly  folded  amongst  the  con- 
fusion of  oddments  in  a  top  drawer  was  her  lace  tie.  Hold- 
ing it  out  to  its  full  length  she  spread  it  against  her  neck, 


92  T  H  E   T  U  N  N  E  L 

crossed  the  ends  at  the  back  bringing  them  back  round  her 

neck  to  spread  in  a  narrow  flat  plastron  to  her  waist,  kept  in 

place  by  a  brooch  at  the  top  and  a  pin   fastened  invisibly 

half  way  down.      Her   face   shone   fresh  and  young;  above 

the  creamy  lace  .  .  .  the  tie  was  still  fairly  new  and  crisp 

.  .  .  when  it  had  to  be  washed  it  would  be  limp  .  .  .  but  it 

would  go  on  some  time  just  for  evenings  transforming  her 

harsh  black  John  Doble  half  guinea  costume  into  evening 

dress.     For  some  moments  she  contemplated   its  pleasant 

continuous  pattern  and  the  way  the  rounded  patterned  ends 

fell  just  below  the  belt.  .  .  . 

'•I 

5 

The  top-floor  bell  would  not  ring.  After  some  hesitation 
Miriam  rang  the  house  bell.  The  door  was  opened  by  a 
woman  in  a  silk  petticoat  and  a  dressing  jacket.  Miriam 
gazed  dumbly  into  large  clear  blue  eyes  gazing  at  her  from 
a  large  clean  clear  fresh  face  feathered  with  little  soft  nat- 
ural curls,  cut  out  sharply  against  the  dark  passage. 

"  Are  you  for  the  top?  "  enquired  the  woman  in  a  smooth 
serene  sleepy  voice. 

"  Yes  "  announced  Miriam  eagerly  coming  in  and  closing 
the  door,  her  ears  straining  to  catch  the  placid  words  spoken 
by  the  woman  as  she  disappeared  softly  into  a  softly-lit 
room.  She  went  tremulously  up  the  dark  stairs  into  a  thick 
stale  odour  of  rancid  fried  grease  and  on  towards  a  light 
that  glimmered  from  the  topmost  short  flight  of  steep  un- 
carpeted  winding  stairs.  "  They're  in  "  said  her  thoughts 
with  a  quick  warm  leap.  "  Hullo  "  she  asserted,  ascending 
the  stairs. 

"  Hullo  "  came  in  response  a  quick  challenging  voice  .  .  . 
a  soft  clear  reed-like  happy  ring  that  Miriam  felt  to  her 
knees  while  her  happy  feet  stumbled  on. 

"  Is  that  the  Henderson?" 


THE   TUNNEL  93 

"  It's  me  "  said  Miriam  emerging  on  a  tiny  landing  and 
going  through  the  open  door  of  a  low-ceiled  lamplit  room. 
"  It's  me  it's  me  "  she  repeated  from  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
An  eager  face  was  turned  towards  her  from  a  thicket  of 
soft  dull  wavy  hair.  She  gazed  vaguely.  The  small  slip- 
pered feet  planted  firmly  high  up  against  the  lintel  the  sweep 
of  the  red  dressing-gown,  the  black  patch  of  the  Mudie  book 
with  its  yellow  label,  the  small  ringed  hand  upon  it,  the 
outflung  arm  and  hand  the  little  wreath  of  smoke  about 
the  end  of  the  freshly  lit  cigarette,  the  cup  of  coffee  on  the 
little  table  under  the  lamp,  the  dim  shapes  about  the  room 
lit  by  the  flickering  blaze.  .  .  . 

Miriam  smiled  into  the  smiling  steel  blue  of  the  eyes 
turned  towards  her  and  waited  smiling  for  the  silver  reed 
of  tone  to  break  again.  "  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  I 
wanted  you.  Sit  down  and  shut  the  door  my  child.  .  .  . 
I  don't  mind  which  you  do  first,  but  —  do  —  them  —  both," 
she  tinkled,  stretching  luxuriously  and  bringing  her  feet 
to  the  ground  with  a  swing.  Miriam  closed  the  door. 
"  Can  I  take  off  my  things  ?  " 

"  Of  course  child  .  .  .  take  them  all  off ;  you  know  I 
admire  you  most  draped  in  a  towel." 

"  I've  got  such  awful  feet "  said  Miriam  hugging  the 
compliment  as  she  dropped  her  things  in  a  distant  arm-chair. 

"  It's  not  your  feet,  it's  your  extraordinary  shoes." 

"  M." 

"  How  beautiful  you  look.  You  put  on  ties  better  than 
anyone  I  know.  I  wish  I  could  wear  things  draped  round 
my  neck." 

Miriam  sat  down  in  the  opposite  wicker  chair. 

"  Isn't  it  cold  —  my  feet  are  freezing ;  it's  raining." 

"  Take  off  your  shoes." 

Miriam  got  off  her  shoes  and  propped  them  in  the  fender 
to  dry. 


94  TUK    TUNNEL 

"  What  is  that  book?" 

"Eden  Philpotfs  'Children  of  the  Mist'"  fluted  the 
voice  reverently.     "  Read  it?" 

"  No"  said  Miriam  expectantly. 

The  eager  face  turned  to  an  eager  profile  with  eyes 
brooding  into  the  fire.  "  He's  so  wonderful  "  mused  the 
voice  and  Miriam  watched  eagerly.  Mag  read  books — for 
their  own  sake;  and  could  judge  them  and  compare  them 
with  other  books  by  the  same  author  .  .  .  but  all  this 
wonderful  knowledge  made  her  seem  wistful ;  knowing  all 
about  books  and  plays  and  strangely  wistful  and  regretful ; 
the  things  that  made  her  eyes  blaze  and  made  her  talk 
reverently  or  in  indignant  defence  always  seemed  sad  in 
the  end  .  .  .  wistful  hero  worship  .  .  .  raving  about  certain 
writers  and  actors  as  if  she  did  not  know  they  were  people. 

"  He's  so  wonderful"  went  on  the  voice  with  its  per- 
petual modulations  "  he  gets  all  the  atmosphere  of  the  west 
country  —  perfectly.  You  live  there  while  you're  reading 
him." 

With  a  little  chill  sense  of  Mag  in  this  wonderful  room 
alone,  living  in  the  west  country  and  herself  coming  in  as 
an  interruption,  Miriam  noted  the  name  of  the  novelist 
in  her  mind  .  .  .  there  was  something  about  it,  she  knew 
she  would  not  forget  it ;  soft  and  numb  with  a  slight  clatter 
and  hiss  at  the  end,  a  rain-storm,  the  atmosphere  of  Devon- 
shire and  the  mill-wheel. 

"  Devonshire  people  are  all  consumptive,"  she  said  de- 
cisively. 

"Are  they?" 

"  Yes,  it's  the  mild  damp  air.  They  have  lovely  complex- 
ions ;  like  the  Irish.  There  must  be  any  amount  of  con- 
sumption in  Ireland." 

"  I  suppose  there  is." 

Miriam  sat  silent  and  still  watching  Mag's  movements 


THE    TUNNEL  95 

as  she  sipped  and  puffed,  so  strangely  easy  and  so  strangely 
wistful  in  her  wonderful  rich  Bloomsbury  life  —  and  waiting 
for  her  next  remark. 

"  You  look  very  happy  tonight  child ;  what  have  you 
been  doing?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  look  as  happy  as  a  bird." 

"  Are  birds  happy  ?  " 

"  Of  course  birds  are  happy." 

"  Well  —  they  prey  on  each  other  —  and  they're  often 
frightened." 

"  How  wise  we  are." 

Brisk  steps  sounded  on  the  little  stairs. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing." 

"  Oh.  I  don't  know.  Weird  things  have  been  happen- 
ing. .  .  .  Oh,  weird  things." 

"  Tell  your  aunt  at  once."  Mag  gathered  herself  together 
as  the  brisk  footsteps  came  into  the  room.  "  Hoh  "  said  a 
strong  resonant  voice  "  it's  the  Henderson.  I  thought  as 
much." 

"Yes.     Doesn't  she  look  pretty?" 

"  Yes  —  she  has  a  beautiful  lace  tie." 

"  I  wish  I  could  wear  things  like  that  round  my  neck, 
don't  you  von  Bohlen?" 

"  I  do.  She  can  stick  anything  round  her  neck  —  and 
look  nice." 

"  Anything ;  a  garter  or  a  —  a  kipper.  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  be  so  cracked." 

"  She  says  weird  things  have  been  happening  to  her.  I 
say  I  didn't  make  any  coffee  for  you  and  the  spirit  lamp 
wants  filling." 

"  Damn  you  —  Schweinhund  —  verfluchte  Schweinhund." 

Miriam  had  been  gazing  at  the  strong  square  figure  in  the 
short  round  fur-lined  cloak  and  sweeping  velvet  hat,  the 


96  Til  E    TUNNEL 

firm  decisive  movements  and  imagining  the  delicate  pointed 
high-heeled  shoes.  Presently  those  things  would  be  off  and 
the  door  closed  on  the  three  of  them. 

"  There's  some  Bass." 

"  I'm  going  to  have  some  suppe.  Have  some  suppe,  Hen- 
derson." 

"  Xon,  merci." 

"  She's  proud.  Bring  her  some.  What  did  you  have  for 
supper,  child?  " 

"  Oh,  we  had  an  enormous  lunch.  They'd  had  a  dinner- 
party." 

"  What  did  you  have  for  supper?" 

"  Oh  lots  of  things." 

"  Bring  her  some  suppe.  I'm  not  sure  I  won't  have  a 
basin  myself." 

"  All  right.  I'll  put  some  on."  The  brisk  steps  went  off 
and  a  voice  hummed  in  and  out  of  the  other  rooms. 

Watching  Mag  stirring  the  fire,  giving  a  last  pull  at  her 
cigarette  end  and  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her  face  .  .  . 
silent  and  old  and  ravaged,  and  young  and  animated  and 
powerful,  Miriam  blushed  and  beamed  silently  at  her  reit- 
erated demands  for  an  account  of  herself. 

"  I  say  I  saw  an  extraordinary  woman  downstairs." 

Mag  turned  sharply  and  put  down  the  poker. 

"Yes?" 

"  In  a  petticoat." 

"  Frederika  Elizabeth  !     She's  seen  the  Pierson  !  " 

"  Hoh !  Has  she?  "  The  brisk  footsteps  approached  and 
the  door  was  closed.  The  dimly  shining  mysteries  of  the 
room  moved  about  Miriam,  the  outside  darkness  flowing 
up  to  the  windows  moved  away  as  the  tall  dressing-gowned 
figure  lowered  the  thin  drab  loosely  rattling  Venetian  blinds ; 
the  light  seemed  to  go  up  and  distant  objects  became  more 
visible;  the  crowded  bookshelf  the  dark  littered  table  under 


THE   TUNNEL  97 

it,  the  empty  table  pushed  against  the  wall  near  the  win- 
dow —  the  bamboo  bookshelf  between  the  windows  above  a 
square  mystery  draped  to  the  ground  with  a  table  cover  — 
the  little  sofa  behind  Mag's  chair,  the  little  pictures,  cattle 
gazing  out  across  a  bridge  of  snow,  cattish  complacent 
sweepy  women.  Albert  .  .  .?  Moore?  the  framed  photo- 
graphs of  Dickens  and  Irving,  the  litter  on  the  serge  draped 
mantelpiece  in  front  of  the  mirror  of  the  bamboo  overman- 
tel, silver  candlesticks,  photographs  of  German  women  and 
Canon  Wilberforce  ...  all  the  riches  of  comfortable  life. 

"  You  are  late." 

"  Yes  I  am  fear-fully  late." 

"  Why  are  you  late  Frederika  Elizabeth  von  Bohlen  ?  " 

The  powerful  rounded  square  figure  was  in  the  leather 
armchair  opposite  the  blaze,  strongly  moulded  brown  knick- 
ered  black  stockinged  legs  comfortably  crossed  stuck  firmly 
out  between  the  heavy  soft  folds  of  a  grey  flannel  dressing 
gown.  The  shoes  had  gone,  grey  woollen  bedroom  slippers 
blurred  all  but  the  shapely  small  ankles.  Mag  was  lighting 
another  cigarette,  von  Bohlen  was  not  doing  needlework, 
the  room  settled  suddenly  to  its  best  rich  exciting  blur. 

"  Tonight  I  must  smoke  or  die." 

"  Must  you,  my  dear." 

"  Why." 

"  To-nate, —  a,  ay  must  smoke  —  a,  or  daye." 

"  Es  ist  bestimmt,  in  Gottes  Rath." 

"  Tell  us  what  you  think  of  the  Pierson,  child." 

"She  was  awfully  nice.     Is  it  your  landlady?" 

"  Yes  —  isn't  she  nice  ?  We  think  she's  extraordinary  — 
all  things  considered.  You  know  we  hadn't  the  least  idea 
what  she  was  when  we  came  here." 

"What  is  she?" 

"  Well  —  er  —  you  embarrass  me,  child,  how  shall  we  put 
it  to  her,  Jan?" 


98  THE   TUNNEL 

"  D'you  mean  to  say  she's  improper?" 
"  Yes  —  she's  improper.     We  hadn't  the  faintest  notion 
of  it  when  we  came." 

"  I  low   extraordinary." 

"  It  is  extraordinary.  We're  living  in  an  improper  house 
—  the  whole  street's  improper  we're  discovering." 

"  I  low  absolutely  awful." 

"Now  we  know  why  Mother  Cosway  hinted  when  we 
left  her  to  come  here  that  we  wanted  to  be  free  for  devil's 
mirth." 

"How   did  you  find  out?" 

"  Henriette  told  us ;  you  see  she  works  for  the  Pierson." 

"What  did  she  tell  you?" 

"Well  — she  told  us." 

"  Six  " —  laughed  Mag,  quoting  towards  Jan. 

"  Six,"  trumpeted  Jan  "  and  if  not  six,  seven." 

They  both  laughed. 

"  In  one  evei  <ing,"  trumpeted  Jan. 

"I  say  are  you  going  to  leave?"  The  thought  of  the 
improper  street  was  terrible  and  horrible ;  but  they  might 
go  right  away  to  some  other  part  of  London.  May  an- 
swered instantly  but  the  interval  had  seemed  long  and 
Miriam  was  cold  with  anxiety. 

"  No :  we  don't  see  why  we  should." 

Miriam  gazed  dumbly  from  one  to  the  other,  finding 
herself  admiring  and  wondering  more  than  ever  at  their 
independence  and  strength. 

"  You  see  the  woman's  so  absolutely  self-respecting." 

"  Much  more  so  than  we  are !  " 

"  Out  of  doors  she's  a  model  of  decorum  and  good  style." 

"  We're  ashamed  when  we  meet  her." 

"  We  are.     We  skip  into  the  gutter." 

"  We  babble  and  slink !  " 


THE   TUNNEL  99 

"  Indoors  she's  a  perfect  landlady.  She's  been  awfully 
good  to  us." 

"  A  perfect  brick !  " 

"  She  doesn't  drink ;  she's  most  exquisitely  clean.  There's 
nothing  whatever  to  —  to  indicate  the  er  —  nature  of  her 
profession." 

"  Except  that  she  sits  at  the  window." 

"  But  she  does  not  tire  her  hair  and  look  forth." 

"  Or  fifth." 

"  Fool" 

Miriam  giggled. 

"  Really  Miriam  she  is  rather  wonderful  you  know.  We 
like  her." 

"  Henriette  is  devoted  to  her." 

"  And  so  apparently  is  her  husband." 

"  Her  husband  ?  "  ' 

"  Yes  —  she  has  a  husband  —  he  appears  at  rare  intervals 
—  and  a  little  girl  at  boarding  school.  She  goes  to  see  her 
but  the  child  never  comes  here.  She  tells  us  quite  frankly 
that  she  wants  to  keep  her  out  of  harm's  way." 

"  How  amazing !  " 

1  Yes,  she's  extraordinary.  She's  Eurasian.  She  was 
born  in  India." 

"That  accounts  for  a  good  deal.  Eurasians  are  awful; 
they've  got  all  the  faults  of  both  sides." 

"  East  is  East  and  West  is  West  and  never  the  two  shall 
meet." 

"  Well,  we  like  her." 

"  So  we  have  decided  to  ignore  her  little  peccadilloes." 

"  I  don't  see  that  it's  our  business.  Frankly  I  can't  see 
that  it  has  anything  whatever  to  do  with  us.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  Well  I  don't  know ;  I  don't  suppose  it  has  really." 

"  What  would  you  do  in  our  place  ?  " 


ioo  THE   TUNNEL 

"  I  don't  know  ...  I  don't  believe  I  should  have  found 
out." 

"  1  don't  believe  you  would;  but  if  you  had?" 

"  I  think  I  should  have  been  awfully  scared." 

"  You  would  have  been  afraid  that  the  sixth." 

"  Or  the  seventh." 

"  Might  have  wandered  upstairs." 

"  No ;  I  mean  the  whole  idea." 

"  Oh ;  the  idea.  .  .  ." 

"  London,  my  dear  Miriam,  is  full  of  ideas." 

"  I  will  go  and  get  the  suppe." 

Jan  rose ;  her  bright  head  and  grey  shoulders  went  up 
above  the  lamplight,  darkening  to  steady  massive  outlines, 
strongly  moving  as  she  padded  and  fluttered  briskly  out  of 
the  room. 

The  rich  blur  of  the  room  free  of  the  troubling  talk  and 
the  swift  conversational  movements  of  the  two,  lifted  and 
was  touched  with  a  faint  grey,  a  suggestion  of  dawn  or 
twilight,  as  if  coming  from  the  hidden  windows.  Mag  sat 
motionless  in  her  chair,  gazing  into  the  fire. 

".  .  .  Wise  and  happy  infant,  I  want  to  ask  your 
opinion." 

Miriam  roused  herself  and  glanced  steadily  across.  The 
outlines  of  things  grew  sharp.  She  could  imagine  the  room 
in  daylight  and  felt  a  faint  sharp  sinking;  hungry. 

"  I'm  going  to  state  you  a  case.  I  think  you  have  an 
extraordinarily  sharp  sense  of  right  and  wrong." 

"  Oh  no" 

"  You  have  an  extraordinarily  sharp  sense  of  right  and 
wrong.     Imagine  a  woman.     Can  you  imagine  a  woman?" 

"  Go  on." 

"  Imagine  a  woman  engaged  to  a  man.  Imagine  her 
allowing  —  another  man  —  to  kiss  her." 


THE   TUNNEL  101 

Miriam  sat  thinking.  She  imagined  the  two,  the  snatched 
caress,  the  other  man  alone  and  unconscious. 

"  Would  you  call  that  treachery  to  the  other  person  ?  " 

"  It  would  depend  upon  which  she  liked  best." 

"  That's  just  the  difficulty." 

"  Oh.     That's  awful." 

"  Don't  you  think  a  kiss,  just  a  kiss  —  might  be, —  well  — 
neither  here  nor  there." 

"  Well,  if  it's  nothing,  there's  nothing  in  the  whole  thing. 
If  there  is  anything  —  you  can't  talk  about  just  kisses." 

"  Dreadful  Miriam." 

"Do  you  believe  in  blunted  sensibilities?"  How  funny 
that  Mag  should  have  led  up  to  that  new  phrase  .  .  .  but 
this  was  a  case. 

"  You  mean " 

"  Whether  if  a  sensibility  is  blunted  it  can  ever  grow 
sharp  again." 

"  No.     I  suppose  that's  it.     How  can  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sure.  It's  a  perfectly  awful 
idea,  I  think." 

"  It  is  awful  —  because  we  are  all  blunting  our  sensibili- 
ties all  the  time  —  are  we  not  ?  " 

"That's  just  it  —  whether  we  ought." 

"  Does  one  always  know  ?  " 

"Don't  you  think  so?  There's  a  feeling.  Yes  I  think 
one  always  knows." 

"  Suppe,  children." 

Miriam  took  her  bowl  with  eager  embarrassment  .  .  . 
the  sugar-basin,  the  pudding  basin  and  the  slop  bowl  to- 
gether on  a  tray,  the  quickly  produced  soup  —  the  wonder- 
ful rich  life  the  girls  lived  in  their  glowing  rooms  —  each 
room  with  a  different  glow.  .  .  .  Jan's  narrow  green  clean 
room  with  its  suite  and  hair  brushes  and  cosmetics  and  pic- 


102  THE    TUNNEL 

hires  of  Christ,  Mag's  crowded  shadowy  little  square,  its 
litter  and  its  many  photographs,  their  eiderdowns  and  baths 
and  hot  water  bottles;  the  kitchen  alive  with  eyes  and  fore- 
heads —  musicians,  artists  philosophers  pasted  on  the  walls 
.  .  .  why?  Why?  .  .  .  Jan  with  wonderful  easy  knowl- 
edge of  the  world's  great  people  .  .  .  and  strange  curious 
intimate  liking  for  them  ...  the  sad  separate  effect  of  all 
those  engraved  faces  ...  the  perfectly  beautiful  blur  they 
made  all  together  in  patches  on  the  walls  ...  the  sitting 
room.  Mag,  nearly  all  Mag,  except  the  photographs  on 
the  mantelpiece  .  .  .  the  whole  rooms  from  the  top  of  the 
stairs  .  .  .  her  thoughts  folded  down ;  they  were  not  going 
away  ;  not ;  that  was  certain. 

"  I  say  I  can't  go  on  for  ever  eating  your  soup." 

"  Drink  it  then  for  a  change  my  child." 

"  No  but  really." 

"  This  is  special  soup ;  there  is  a  charge ;  one  guinea  a 
basin." 

"  Use  of  room  two  guineas." 

"  Intellectual  conversation " 

"  One  and  eleven  three." 

Miriam  flung  out  delighted  admiring  glances  and  laughed 
unrestrainedly.  Mag's  look  saying  "  it  does  not  take  much 
to  keep  the  child  amused  "  took  nothing  from  her  mirthful 
joy.  Their  wit,  or  was  it  humour?  —  always  brought  the 
same  happy  shock  .  .  .  they  were  so  funny ;  there  was  a 
secret  in  it. 

"  It's  awfully  good  soup." 

"  Desiccated " 

"  A  penny  a  packet." 

"  Thickened  with  pea  flour." 

"  Twopence  a  packet." 


THE   TUNNEL  103 


6 


"Was  she  your  favourite  schoolfellow?" 

Miriam's  jarred  mind  worked  eagerly.  The  girls  thought 
this  was  a  revival  of  some  great  school  friendship  .  .  . 
they  would  not  be  in  the  least  jealous;  they  were  curious 
and  interested,  but  they  must  understand  .  .  .  they  must 
realize  that  Alma  was  wonderful  .  .  .  something  to  be 
proud  of  ...  in  the  strange  difficult  scientific  way ;  some- 
thing they  knew  hardly  anything  about.  Mag  almost  not  at 
all  and  Jan  only  in  a  general  way  in  her  neat  wide  education ; 
but  not  in  Alma's  way  of  being  rigid  and  reverent  and 
personally  interested  about,  so  that  every  other  way  of 
looking  at  things  made  her  angry.  But  they  must  under- 
stand, they  must  in  some  quite  certain  way  be  quickly  made 
to  understand  at  the  same  time  that  she  was  outside  .  .  . 
an  extra  ...  a  curious  bright  distant  resource,  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  wonderful  present  .  .  .  the  London 
life  was  sacred  and  secret,  away  from  everything  else  in 
the  world.  It  would  disappear  if  one  had  ties  outside  .  .  . 
anything  besides  the  things  of  holidays  and  week-ends  that 
they  all  three  had  and  brought  back  from  outside  to  talk 
about.  It  would  be  easy  and  exciting  to  meet  Alma  if 
that  were  clear,  and  to  come  back  and  tell  the  girls  about  it. 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

They  both  looked  up,  stirring  in  their  quick  way,  and 
waited. 

Miriam  moved  her  head  uneasily.  It  was  painful.  They 
were  using  a  sort  of  language  .  .  .  that  was  the  trouble  .  .  . 
your  favourite  flower  .  .  .  your  favourite  colour  ...  it 
was  just  the  sort  of  pain  that  came  in  trying  to  fill  up  con- 
fession albums.  This  bit  of  conversation  would  be  at  an 
end  presently.     Her  anger  would  shut  it  up,  and  they  would 


io4  Till',    TUNNEL 

put  it  away  without  understanding  that  Mag  would  go  on 
to  something  else. 

"  \'o — I  don't  think  she  was.  She  was  very  small  and 
pretty  —  petite.     She  had  the  most  wonderful  limpid  eyes." 

Mag  was  sitting  forward  with  her  elhows  on  her  knees 
and  her  little  hands  sticking  out  into  the  air.  A  comfort- 
able tinkling  chuckle  shook  her  shoulders.  Miriam  tugged 
and  wrenched. 

"  I  don't  think  she  cared  for  me,  really  .  .  .  she  was  an 
only  child." 

Mag's  chuckle  pealed  up  into  a  little  festoon  of  clear 
laughter. 

"  She  doesn't  care  for  you  because  —  she's  —  an  —  only 
—  child  "  she  shook  out. 

"  One  of  the  sheltered  ones."  Jan  returned  to  her  chiffon 
pleats.  She  was  making  conversation.  She  did  not  care 
how  much  or  how  little  Alma  mattered. 

"  She's  sheltered  now  anyhow  —  she's  married." 

"  Oh  —  she's  married.  .  .  ." 

"She's  married  is  she?" 

Polite  tones  .  .  .  they  were  not  a  bit  surprised  .  .  .  both 
faces  looked  calm  and  abstracted.  The  room  was  dark 
and  clear  in  the  cold  entanglement.  It  must  be  got  over 
now,  as  if  she  had  not  mentioned  Alma.  She  felt  for  her 
packet  of  cigarettes  with  an  uneasy  face,  watching  Mag's 
firm  movements  as  she  rearranged  herself  and  her  dressing 
gown  in  her  chair. 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"  About  my  age." 

"  Oh  —  about  nine ;  that's  early  to  begin  the  sheltered 
life." 

"You  can't  begin  the  sheltered  life  too  early;  if  you 
are  going  to  begin  it  at  all." 

"  Why  begin  it  at  all,  Jan  ?  " 


THE   TUNNEL  105 

"  Well  my  dear  little  Miriam  I  think  there  is  a  good  deal 
to  be  said  for  the  sheltered  life." 

«  Yes "     Mag   settled   more   deeply   into   her   chair, 

burrowing  with  her  shoulders  and  crossing  her  knees  with 
a  fling — "  and  if  you  don't  begin  it  jolly  early  it's  too  late 
to  begin  it  at  all.  .  .  ." 

Then  Mag  meant  to  stay  always  as  she  was  ...  oh,  good, 
good  .  .  .  with  several  people  interested  in  her  .  .  .  what 
a  curious  worry  her  engagement  must  be  .  .  .  irrelevant 
.  .  .  and  with  her  ideas  of  loyalty.  "  Don't  you  think  soh  ?  " 
Irritating  —  why  did  she  do  it  —  what  was  it  —  not  a  pro- 
vincialism—  some  kind  of  affectation  as  if  she  were  on  the 
stage.  It  sounded  brisk  and  important  —  soh  —  as  if  her 
thoughts  had  gone  on  and  she  was  making  conversation 
with  her  lips.  Why  not  let  them  and  drop  it  .  .  .  there 
was  something  waiting,  always  something  waiting  just  out- 
side the  nag  of  conversation. 

"  I  can't  imagine  anything  more  awful  than  what  you 
call  the  sheltered  life  "  said  Miriam  with  a  little  pain  in 
her  forehead.  Perhaps  they  would  laugh  and  that  would 
finish  it  and  something  would  begin. 

"  For  us  yes.  Imagine  either  of  us  coming  down  to  it 
in  the  morning;  the  regular  breakfast  table,  the  steaming 
coffee,  the  dashes  of  rishers  .  .  .  dishers  of  rashes  I  mean, 
the  eggs.  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  alluding  I  presume  to  the  beggs  and  aeon." 

"  Precisely.     We  should  die." 

"  Of  boredom." 

"  Imagine  not  being  able  to  turn  up  on  Sunday  morning 
in  your  knickers  with  your  hair  down." 

"  I  love  Sundays.     That  first  cigarette  over  the  Referee." 

"  Is  like  nothing  on  earth." 

"  Or  in  heaven." 

"  Well,  or  in  heaven." 


106  THETUNNEL 

"  The  first  cigarette  anyhow,  with  or  without  the  Referee. 
It's  just  pure  absolute  bliss  that  first  bit  of  Sunday  morn- 
ing ;  complete  well-being  and  happiness." 

"  While  the  sheltered  people  are  flushed  with  breakfast 
table-talk " 

"  Or  awkward  silences." 

"  The  deep  damned  silence  of  disillusionment." 

"  And  thinking  about  getting  ready  for  church." 

"  The  men  smoke." 

"  Stealthily  and  sleepily  in  armchairs  like  cats  —  ever 
seen  a  cat  smoke?  —  like  cats  —  with  the  wife  or  somebody 
they  are  tired  of  talking  to  on  the  doormat  —  as  it  were  — 
tentatively,  I  speak  tentatively  ...  in  a  dead-alley  —  De- 
dale  —  Dedalus  —  coming  into  the  room  any  minute  in 
Sunday  clothes " 

"  To  stand  on  the  hearthrug." 

"  No,  hanging  about  the  room.  If  there's  any  hearthrug 
standing  it's  the  men  who  do  it,  smoking  blissfully  alone, 
and  trying  to  look  weary  and  wise  and  important  if  anyone 


comes  in." 


"Like  Cabinet  ministers?" 

"  Yes  ;  when  they  are  really  —  er." 

"  Cabinets." 

"  Footstools ;  office  stools ;  you  never  saw  a  sheltered 
woman  venture  on  to  the  hearthrug  except  for  a  second  if 
she's  short-sighted  to  look  at  the  clock."  Miriam  sprang 
to  the  hearthrug  and  waved  her  cigarette.  "  Con-fu-sion 
to  the  sheltered  life!"  The  vast  open  of  London  swung, 
welcoming  before  her  eyes. 

"  Hoch  !     Hoch !  " 

"  Banzai !  " 

"  We  certainly  have  our  compensations." 

"  Com-pen-.ra-tions?  " 

"  Well  —  for  all  the  things  we  have  to  give  up." 


THE   TUNNEL  107 

"What  things?" 

"  The  things  that  belong  to  us.  To  our  youth.  Tennis, 
dancing  —  er  irresponsibility  in  general.  .  .  ." 

"  I've  never  once  thought  about  any  of  those  things ; 
never  once  since  I  came  to  town  "  said  Miriam  grappling 
with  little  anxious  pangs  that  assailed  her  suddenly;  dimly 
seeing  the  light  on  garden  trees,  hearing  distant  shouts, 
the  sound  of  rowlocks,  the  lapping  of  water  against  smooth- 
ing swinging  culls.  But  all  that  life  meant  people,  daily 
association  with  sheltered  women  and  complacent  abomin- 
able men,  there  half  the  time  and  half  the  time  away  on 
their  own  affairs  which  gave  them  a  sort  of  mean  advantage, 
and  money.  There  was  nothing  really  to  regret.  It  was 
different  for  Mag.  She  did  not  mind  ordinary  women. 
Did  not  know  the  difference ;  or  men. 

"  Yes  but  anyhow.  If  we  were  in  the  sheltered  life  we 
should  either  have  done  with  that  sort  of  thing  and  be 
married  —  or  still  keeping  it  up  and  anxious  about  not  being 
married.     Besides  anyhow;  think  of  the  awful  people." 

"  Intolerant  child." 

"  Isn't  she  intolerant.     What  a  good  thing  you  met  us." 

"  Yes  of  course ;  but  I'm  not  intolerant.  And  look  here. 
Heaps  of  those  women  envy  us.  They  envy  us  our  free- 
dom. What  we're  having  is  wanderyahre ;  the  next  best 
thing  to  wanderyahre." 

"  Women  don't  want  wanderyahre." 

"  I  do,  Jan." 

"  So  do  I.  I  think  the  child's  quite  right  there.  Free- 
dom is  life.  We  may  be  slaves  all  day  and  guttersnipes  all 
the  rest  of  the  time  but  ach  Gott,  we  are  free." 

7 
"  What  a  perfectly  extraordinary  idea." 
"  I  know.     But  I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  away  from 


108  THE    TUNNEL 

it"  mused  Miriam,  dreamily  holding  out  against  Jan's 
absorbed  sewing  and  avoiding  for  a  moment  Mag's  in- 
credulously speculative  eyes;  "if  it's  true,"  she  went  on, 
the  rich  blur  of  the  warm  room  becoming  as  she  sent  out 
her  voice  evenly,  thinking  eagerly  on,  a  cool  clear  even  day- 
light, "  that  everything  that  can  possibly  happen  does  hap- 
pen, then  there  must  be  somewhere  in  the  world,  every 
possible  kind  of  variation  of  us  and  this  room." 

"  D'you  mean  to  say  "  gurgled  Mag  with  a  fling  of  her 
knickered  leg  and  an  argumentative  movement  of  the  hand 
that  hung  loosely  dangling  a  cigarette  over  the  fireside  arm 
of  the  chair,  "  that  there  are  millions  of  rooms  exactly  like 
this  each  with  one  thing  different  —  say  the  stem  of  one 
narcissus  broken  instead  of  whole  for  instance." 

"  My  dear  Miriam,  infinitude  couldn't  hold  them." 

"  Infinitude  can  hold  anything  —  of  course  I  can  see  the 
impossibility  of  a  single  world  holding  all  the  possible 
variations  of  everything  at  once  —  but  what  I  mean  is  that 
I  can  think  it  and  there  must  be  something  corresponding 
to  it  in  life  —  anything  that  the  mind  can  conceive  is  real- 
ised, somehow,  all  possibilities  must  come  about,  that's  what 
I  mean  I  think." 

"  You  mean  you  can  see,  as  it  were  in  space,  millions  of 
little  rooms  —  a  little  different  "  choked  Mag. 

"  Yes  I  can  —  quite  distinctly  —  solid  —  no  end  to 
them." 

"  I  think  it's  a  perfectly  horrible  idea  "  stated  Jan  com- 
placently. 

"It  isn't  —  I  love  it  and  it's  true  .  .  .  you  go  on  and 
on  and  on,  filling  space." 

"  Then  space  is  solid." 

"  It  is  solid.  People  who  talk  of  empty  space  don't 
think  .  .  .  space  is  more  solid  than  a  wall  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
more  solid  than  a  diamond  —  girls,  I'm  sure." 


THE   TUNNEL  109 

"  Space  is  full  of  glorious  stars.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes ;  I  know  but  that's  such  a  tiny  bit  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"  Millions  and  trillions  of  miles." 

"  Those  are  only  words.     Everything  is  words." 

"  Well  you  must  use  words." 

"  You  ought  not  to  think  in  words.  I  mean  —  you  can 
think  in  your  brain  by  imagining  yourself  going  on  and  on 
through  it,  endless  space." 

"  You  can't  grasp  space  with  your  mind." 

"  You  don't  grasp  it.     You  go  through  it." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean.  To  me  it  is  a  fearful  idea.  Like 
eternal  punishment." 

"  There's  no  such  thing  as  eternal  punishment.  The 
idea  is  too  silly.  It  makes  God  a  failure  and  a  fool.  It's 
a  man's  idea.  The  men  who  take  the  hearthrug.  Sitting 
on  a  throne  judging  everybody  and  passing  sentence  is  a 
thing  a  man  would  do." 

"  But  humanity  is  wicked." 

"  Then  God  is.  You  can't  separate  God  and  humanity 
and  that  includes  women  who  don't  really  believe  any  of 
those  things." 

"  But.  Look  at  the  churches.  Look  at  women  and  the 
parsons." 

"  Women  like  ritual  and  things  and  they  like  parsons, 
some  parsons,  because  they  are  like  women,  penetrable  to 
light,  as  Wilberforce  said  the  other  day,  and  understand 
women  better  than  most  men  do." 

"  Miriam,  are  you  a  pantheist?  " 

"  The  earth  the  sea  and  the  sky 

"  The  sun  the  moon  and  the  stars 

"  Are  not  these,  oh  soul, 

"  That's  the  Higher  Pantheism." 

"  Nearer  is  he  than  breathing,  closer  than  hands  and 
feet.     It  doesn't  matter  what  you  call  it." 


no  THE    TUNNEL 

"If  you  don't  accept  eternal  punishment  there  can't  be 
eternal  happiness." 

"Oh   punishment,   happiness;   tweedledum,   tweedledee." 

"  Well  —  look  here,  there's  remorse.  That's  deathless. 
It  must  be.  If  you  feel  remorseful  about  anything  the 
feeling  must  last  as  long  as  you  remember  the  thing." 

"  Remorse  is  real  enough.  I  know  what  you  mean.  But 
it  may  be  short-sightedness.  Not  seeing  all  round  a  thing. 
Is  that  Tomlinson?  Or  it  may  be  cleansing  you.  If  it 
were  complete  Mag  it  would  kill  you  outright.  I  can  be- 
lieve that.  I  can  believe  in  annihilation.  I  am  prepared 
for  it.  I  can't  think  why  it  doesn't  happen  to  me.  That's 
just  it." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  annihilated." 

"  Shut  up  von  Bohlen ;  you  wouldn't.  But  look  here 
Miriam  child,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  think  that  as  long 
as  there  is  something  that  keeps  on  and  on,  fighting  its  way 
on  in  spite  of  everything  one  has,  well,  a  right  to  exist?" 

"  Well,  that  may  be  the  survival  of  the  fittest  which 
doesn't  mean  the  ethically  fittest  as  Huxley  had  to  admit. 
We  kill  the  ethically  fittest  at  present.  We  killed  Christ. 
They  go  to  Heaven.  All  of  us  who  survive  have  things  to 
learn  down  here  in  hell.  Perhaps  this  is  hell.  There  seems 
something,  ahead." 

"  Ourselves.  Rising  on  the  ashes  of  our  dead  selves. 
Lord,  it's  midnight " 

The  chill  of  the  outside  night,  solitude  and  her  cold 
empty  room.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  going  to  bed." 
"  So  am  I.     We  shall  be  in  bed,  Miriam,  five  minutes  after 
you  have  gone." 

Jan  went  off  for  the  hot  water  bottles. 

"All  right,  I'm  going "  Miriam  bent  for  her  shoes. 

The  soles  were  dry,  scorching;  they  scorched  her  feet  as 


THE   TUNNEL  in 

she  forced  on  the  shoes ;  one  sole  cracked  across  as  she  put 
her  foot  to  the  ground  .  .  .  she  braced  the  muscles  of  her 
face  and  said  nothing.  It  must  be  forgotten  before  she  left 
the  room  that  they  were  nearly  new  and  her  only  pair; 
two  horrid  ideas,  nagging  and  keeping  things  away. 

8 

Outside  in  the  air  daylight  grew  strong  and  clear  in 
Miriam's  mind.  Patches  of  day  came  in  a  bright  sheen 
from  the  moonlit  puddles,  distributed  over  the  square. 
She  crossed  the  road  to  the  narrow  pathway  shadowed  by 
the  trees  that  ran  round  the  long  oblong  enclosure.  From 
this  dark  pathway  the  brightness  of  the  wet  moonlit  road- 
way was  brighter  and  she  could  see  fagades  that  caught  the 
moonlight.  There  was  something  trying  to  worry  her, 
some  little  thing  that  did  not  matter  at  all,  but  that  some 
part  of  her  had  put  away  to  worry  over  and  was  now  want- 
ing to  consider.  Mag's  affairs  ...  no  she  had  decided 
about  that.  It  might  be  true  about  blunted  sensibilities ;  but 
she  had  meant  for  some  reason  to  let  that  other  man  kiss 
her,  and  people  never  ask  advice  until  they  have  made  up 
their  minds  what  they  are  going  to  do  and  Mag  was  Mag 
quite  apart  from  anything  that  might  happen.  She  would 
still  be  Mag  if  she  were  old  .  .  .  or  mad.  That  was  a  firm 
settled  real  thing,  real  and  absolute  in  the  daylight  of  the 
moonlit  square.  She  wandered  slowly  on  humming  a  tune ; 
every  inch  of  the  way  would  be  lovely.  The  figure  of  a 
man  in  an  overcoat  and  a  bowler  hat  loomed  towards  her 
on  the  narrow  pathway  and  stopped.  The  man  raised  his 
hat,  and  his  face  showed  smiling  with  the  moonlight  on  it. 
Miriam  had  a  moment's  fear;  but  the  man's  attitude  was 
deprecating  and  there  was  her  song;  it  was  partly  her  own 
fault.  But  why  why  .  .  .  fierce  anger  at  the  recurrence 
of  this  kind  of  occurrence  seized  her.     She  wanted  him  out 


ii2  THE    TUNNEL 

of  the  way  and  wanted  him  to  know  how  angry  she  was  at 
the  interruption. 

"  Well."  she  snapped  angrily,  coming  to  a  standstill  in 
the  moonlit  gap. 

"  Oh  "  said  the  man  a  little  breathlessly  in  a  lame  broken 
tone,  "  I  thought  you  were  going  this  way." 

"  So  I  am,"  retorted  Miriam  in  a  loud  angry  shaking 
tone,  "  obviously." 

The  man  stepped  quickly  into  the  gutter  and  walked 
quickly  away  across  the  road.  St.  Pancras  church  chimed 
the  quarter. 

Miriam  marched  angrily  forward  with  shaking  limbs  that 
steadied  themselves  very  quickly  .  .  .  the  night  had  become 
suddenly  cold ;  bitter  and  penetrating ;  a  north-east  wind, 
of  course.  It  was  frightfully  cold  after  the  warm  room; 
the  square  was  bleak  and  endless ;  the  many  facades  were 
too  far  off  to  keep  the  wind  away ;  the  pavement  was  very 
cold  under  her  right  foot;  that  was  it;  the  broken  sole 
was  the  worry  that  had  been  trying  to  come  up ;  she  could 
walk  with  it;  it  would  not  matter  if  the  weather  kept  dry 
...  an  upright  gait,  hurrying  quickly  away  across  the 
moonlit  sheen;  just  the  one  she  had  summoned  up  anger 
and  courage  to  challenge  was  not  so  bad  as  the  others 
.  .  .  they  were  not  bad;  that  was  not  it;  it  was  the  way 
they  got  in  the  way  .  .  .  figures  of  men,  dark,  in  dark 
clothes,  presenting  themselves,  calling  attention  to  them- 
selves and  the  way  they  saw  things,  mean  and  suggestive, 
always  just  when  things  were  loveliest.  Couldn't  the  man 
see  the  look  of  the  square  and  the  moonlight?  .  .  .  that 
afternoon  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  .  .  .  just  when  even-thing 
flashed  out  after  the  rain  .  .  .  the  sudden  words  close  to 
her  ear  ...  my  beauty  ...  my  sweet  .  .  .  you  sweet 
girl  .  .  .  the  puffy  pale  old  face,  the  puffs  under  the  sharp 
brown  eyes.     A   strange  .  .  .  conviction   in   the   trembling 


THE   TUNNEL  113 

old  voice  ...  it  was  deliberate;  a  sort  of  statement;  done 
on  purpose,  something  chosen  that  would  please  most.  It 
was  like  the  conviction  and  statement  there  had  been  in 
Bob  Greville's  voice.  Old  men  seemed  to  have  some  sort 
of  understanding  of  things.  If  only  they  would  talk  with 
the  same  conviction  about  other  things  as  there  was  in  their 
tone  when  they  said  those  personal  things.  But  the  things 
they  said  were  worldly  —  generalisations,  like  the  things 
one  read  in  books  that  tired  you  out  with  trying  to  find  the 
answer,  and  made  books  so  awful  .  .  .  things  that  might 
look  true  about  everybody  at  some  time  or  other  and  were 
not  really  true  about  anybody  —  when  you  knew  them. 
But  people  liked  those  things  and  thought  them  clever  and 
smiled  about  them.  All  the  things  the  old  men  said  about 
life  and  themselves  and  other  people,  about  everything  but 
oneself,  were  sad;  disappointed  and  sad  with  a  glint  of  far 
off  youth  in  their  faces  as  they  said  them  .  .  .  something 
moving  in  the  distance  behind  the  blue  of  their  eyes.  .  .  . 
"  Make  the  best  of  your  youth  my  dear  before  it  flies."  If 
it  all  ended  in  sadness  and  envy  of  youth,  life  was  simply 
a  silly  trick.  Life  could  not  be  a  silly  trick.  Life  cannot 
be  a  silly  trick.  That  is  the  simple  truth  ...  a  certainty. 
Whatever  happens,  whatever  things  look  like,  life  is  not 
a  trick. 

Miriam  began  singing  again  when  she  felt  herself  in  her 
own  street,  clear  and  empty  in  the  moonlight.  The  north 
wind  blew  down  it  unobstructed  and  she  was  shivering  and 
singing  .  .  .  spring  is  co-ming  a-and  the  .swa-llows  — 
have  come  back  to  te-ell  me  so."  Spring  could  not  be  far 
off.  At  this  moment  in  the  dark  twilight  behind  the  thick 
north  wind  the  squares  were  green. 


ii4  THE    TUNNEL 

9 

Her  song,  restrained  on  the  doorstep  and  while  she  felt 
her  already  well-known  way  in  almost  insupportable  happi- 
ness through  the  unlit  hall  and  through  the  moonlight  up 
the  seventy-five  stairs,  broke  out  again  when  her  room  was 
reached  and  her  door  shut ;  the  two  other  doors  had  stood 
open  showing  empty  moonlit  spaces.  She  was  still  alone 
and  unheard  on  the  top  floor.  Her  room  was  almost  warm 
after  the  outside  cold.  The  row  of  attic  and  fourth  floor 
windows  visible  from  her  open  lattice  were  in  darkness,  or 
burnished  blue  with  moonlight.  Warm  blue  moonlight 
gleamed  along  the  leads  sloping  down  to  her  ink-black 
parapet.  The  room  was  white  and  blue  lit,  with  a  sweet 
morning  of  moonlight.  She  had  a  momentary  impulse  to- 
wards prayer  and  glanced  at  the  bed.  To  get  so  far  and 
cast  herself  on  her  knees  and  hide  her  face  in  her  hands 
against  the  counterpane,  the  bones  behind  the  softness  of 
her  hands  meeting  the  funny  familiar  round  shape  of  her 
face,  the  dusty  smell  of  the  counterpane  coming  up,  her 
face  praying  to  her  hands,  her  hands  praying  to  her  face, 
both  throbbing  separately  with  their  secret,  would  drive 
something  away.  Something  that  was  so  close  in  every- 
thing in  the  room,  so  pouring  in  at  the  window  that  she 
could  scarcely  move  from  where  she  stood.  She  flung 
herself  more  deeply  into  her  song  and  passed  through  the 
fresh  buoyant  singing  air  to  light  the  gas.  The  room 
turned  to  its  bright  even  brown.  Prayer.  Being  so 
weighed  down  and  free  with  happiness  was  the  time  .  .  . 
sacrifice  .  .  .  the  evening  sacrifice  of  praise  and  prayer. 
That  is  what  that  means.  To  toss  all  the  joys  and  happi- 
ness away  and  know  that  you  are  happy  and  free  without 
anything.  That  you  cannot  escape  being  happy  and  free. 
It  always  comes. 


THE   TUNNEL  115 

Why  am  I  so  happy  and  free  she  wondered  with  tears 
in  her  eyes.  Why?  Why  do  lovely  things  and  people  go 
on  happening?  To  own  that  something  in  you  had  no 
right.  But  not  crouching  on  your  knees  .  .  .  standing  and 
singing  till  everything  split  with  your  joy  and  let  you 
through  into  the  white  white  brightness. 

10 

To  see  the  earth  whirling  slowly  round,  coloured,  its 
waters  catching  the  light.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  hurriedly  discarding  her  clothes.  They  were  old  and 
worn,  friendly  and  alive  with  the  fresh  strength  of  her 
body.  Other  clothes  would  be  got  somehow;  just  by  going 
on  and  working  .  .  .  there's  so  much  —  eternally.  It's 
stupendous.  I've  no  right  to  be  in  it;  but  I'm  in.  Some- 
one means  me  to  be  in.  /  can't  help  it.  Fancy  people 
being  alive.  You  would  think  everyone  would  go  mad. 
She  found  herself  in  bed,  sitting  up  in  her  flannellette 
dressing  jacket.  The  stagnant  air  beneath  the  sharp  down- 
ward slope  of  the  ceiling  was  warmed  by  the  gas.  The 
gas-light  glared  beautifully  over  her  shoulder  down  on  to 
the  page.  .  .  . 

11 

All  that  has  been  said  and  known  in  the  world  is  in 
language,  in  words ;  all  we  know  of  Christ  is  in  Jewish 
words ;  all  the  dogmas  of  religion  are  words ;  the  meaning 
of  words  change  with  people's  thoughts.  Then  no  one 
knows  anything  for  certain.  Everything  depends  upon 
the  way  a  thing  is  put,  and  that  is  a  question  of  some  par- 
ticular civilisation.  Culture  comes  through  literature, 
which  is  a  half-truth.  People  who  are  not  cultured  are 
isolated  in  barbaric  darkness.  The  Greeks  were  cultured ; 
but  they   are   barbarians  .  .  .  why?    Whether   you   agree 


n6  THE    TUNNEL 

or  not,  language  is  the  only  way  of  expressing  anything  and 
it  dims  everything.  So  the  Bible  is  not  true ;  it  is  a  culture. 
Religion  is  wrong  in  making  word-dogmas  out  of  it.  Christ 
was  something.  But  Christianity  which  calls  Him  divine 
and  so  on  is  false.  It  clings  to  words  which  get  more  and 
more  wrong  .  .  .  then  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  and 
nothing  to  be  quite  sure  of  rejoicing  about.  The  Chris- 
tians are  irritating  and  frightened.  The  man  with  side- 
whiskers  understands  something.     But. 


CHAPTER   V 


THEN  all  these  years  they  might  have  been  going 
sometimes  to  those  lectures.  Peter  talking  about 
them  —  telling  about  old  Rayleigh  and  old  Kelvin  as  if 
they  were  his  intimates  —  flinging  out  remarks  as  if  he 
wanted  to  talk  and  his  audience  were  incapable  of  apprecia- 
tion .  .  .  light,  heat,  electricity,  sound-waves;  and  never 
saying  that  members  could  take  friends  or  that  there  were 
special  lectures  for  children  .  .  .  Sir  Robert  Ball  ..."  a 
fascinating  Irish  fellow  with  the  gift  of  the  gab  who  made 
a  volcano  an  amusing  reality  "  Krakatoa  .  .  .  that  year  of 
wonderful  sunsets  and  afterglows  .  .  .  the  air  half  round 
the  world,  full  of  fine  dust  ...  it  seemed  cruel  .  .  .  de- 
privation ...  all  those  years ;  all  that  wonderful  know- 
ledge just  at  hand.  And  now  it  was  coming,  the  Royal 
Institution  .  .  .  this  evening.  She  must  find  out  whether 
one  had  to  dress  and  exactly  how  one  got  in.  Albemarle 
Street.  ...  It  all  went  on  in  Albemarle  Street. 


"  We  might  meet "  said  Mr.  Hancock,  busily  washing 
his  hands  and  lifting  them  in  the  air  to  shake  back  his  coat 
sleeves.  Miriam  listened  from  her  corner  behind  the  in- 
strument cabinet,  stupid  with  incredulity;  he  could  not  be 
speaking  of  the  lecture  ...  he  must  be  ...  he  had  meant 
all  the  time  that  he  was  going  to  be  with  her  at  the  lec- 
ture. 

117 


u8  THE   TUNNEL 

"...  in  the  library  at  half  past  eight." 
"  Oh  yes  "  she  replied  casually. 

3 

To  sit  hearing  the  very  best  in  the  intellectual  life  of 
London,  the  very  best  science  there  was ;  the  inner  circle 
suddenly  open  .  .  .  the  curious  quiet  happy  laughter  that 
went  through  the  world  with  the  idea  of  the  breaking  up 
of  the  air  and  water  and  rays  of  light;  the  strange  love 
that  came  suddenly  to  them  all  in  the  object  lesson  classes 
at  Banbury  Park.  That  was  to  begin  again  .  .  .  but  now 
not  only  books,  not  the  strange  heavenly  difficult  success 
of  showing  the  children  the  things  that  had  been  found 
out ;  but  the  latest  newest  things  from  the  men  themselves 
—  there  would  be  an  audience  and  a  happy  man  with  a  lit 
face  talking  about  things  he  had  just  found  out.  Even  if 
one  did  not  understand  there  would  be  that.  Fancy  Mr. 
Hancock  being  a  member  and  always  going  and  not  talk- 
ing about  it  ...  at  lunch.  He  must  know  an  enormous 
number  of  things  besides  the  wonders  of  dentistry  and 
pottery  and  Japanese  art. 

It  was  education  ...  a  liberal  education.  It  made  up 
for  only  being  able  to  say  one  was  secretary  to  a  dentist 
at  a  pound  a  week  ...  it  sounded  strange  at  the  end  of 
twelve  years  of  education  and  five  months  in  Germany 
and  two  teaching  poets  —  to  people  who  could  not  see  how 
wonderful  it  was  from  the  inside ;  and  the  strange  mean- 
ing and  Tightness  there  was ;  there  had  been  a  meaning  in 
Mr.  Hancock  from  the  beginning,  a  sort  of  meaning  in  her 
privilege  of  associating  with  fine  rare  people,  so  different 
to  herself  and  yet  coming  one  after  another,  like  questions 
into  her  life,  and  staying  until  she  understood  .  .  .  some- 
body struggled  all  night  with  the  angel  ...  I  will  not  let 
thee  go  until  thou  bless  me  .  .  .  and  there  was  some  mean- 


THE   TUNNEL  119 

ing —  of  course,  meanings  everywhere  .  .  .  perhaps  a  per- 
son inside  a  life  could  always  feel  meanings  ...  or  per- 
haps only  those  who  had  moved  from  one  experience  to  an- 
other could  get  that  curious  feeling  of  a  real  self  that  stayed 
the  same  through  thing  after  thing. 

4 

"  This  is  the  library  "  said  Mr.  Hancock  leading  Miriam 
along  from  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  wide  red-carpeted 
staircase.  It  seemed  a  vast  room  —  rooms  leading  one  out 
of  the  other,  lit  with  soft  red  lights  and  giving  a  general 
effect  of  redness,  dull  crimson  velvet  in  a  dull  red  glow  and 
people,  standing  in  groups  and  walking  about  —  a  quite 
new  kind  of  people.  Miriam  glanced  at  her  companion. 
He  looked  in  place ;  he  was  in  his  right  place ;  these  were 
his  people ;  people  with  gentle  enlightened  faces  and  keen 
enlightened  faces.  They  were  all  alike  in  some  way.  If 
the  room  caught  fire  there  would  be  no  panic.  They  were 
gentle,  shyly  gentle  or  pompously  gentle,  but  all  the  same 
and  in  agreement  because  they  all  knew  everything,  the  real 
important  difficult  things.  Some  of  them  were  discussing 
and  disagreeing;  many  of  the  women's  faces  had  questions 
and  disagreements  on  them  and  they  were  nearly  all  worn 
with  thought ;  but  they  would  disagree  in  a  way  that  was 
not  quarrelsome,  because  everyone  in  the  room  was  sure 
of  the  importance  of  the  things  they  were  discussing  .  .  . 
they  were  all  a  part  of  science.  ..."  Science  is  always 
right  and  the  same,  religion  cannot  touch  it  or  be  reconciled 
with  it,  theories  may  modify  or  cancel  each  other  but  the 
methods  of  science  are  one  and  unvarying.  To  question 
that  fundamental  truth  is  irreligious"  .  .  .  these  people 
were  that  in  the  type  of  their  minds  —  one  and  unvarying ; 
always  looking  out  at  something  with  gentle  intelligence  or 
keen  intelligence  .  .  .  this  was  Alma's  world  ...  it  would 


120  THE   TUNNEL 

be  something  to  talk  to  Alma  about.  There  was  something 
they  were  not.  They  were  not  .  .  .  jolly.  They  could 
not  be.  They  would  never  stop  "  looking."  Culture  and 
refinement ;  with  something  about  it  that  made  them  quite 
different  to  the  worldly  people,  a  touch  of  rawness,  raw 
school  harshness  about  them  that  was  unconscious  of  itself 
and  could  not  come  to  life.  Their  shoulders  and  the  backs 
of  their  heads  could  never  come  to  life.  It  gave  them 
a  kind  of  deadness  that  was  quite  unlike  the  deadness  of  the 
worldly  people,  not  nearly  so  dreadful  —  rather  funny  and 
likable.  One  could  imagine  them  all  washing,  very  care- 
fully, in  an  abstracted  way  still  looking  and  thinking  and 
always  with  the  advancement  of  science  on  their  minds ; 
never  really  aware  of  anything  behind  or  around  them  be- 
cause of  the  wonders  of  science.  Seeing  these  people 
changed  science  a  little.  They  were  almost  something  tre- 
mendous; but  not  quite. 

5 
"  That's  old  Huggins  "  murmured  Mr.  Hancock,  giving 
Miriam's  arm  a  gentle  nudge  as  a  white-haired  old  man 
passed  close  by  them  with  an  old  woman  at  his  side,  with 
short  white  hair  exactly  like  him.  "  The  man  who  invented 
spectrum  analysis  —  and  that's  his  wife ;  they're  both  great 
fishermen."  Marian  gazed.  There,  was  the  splendid  thing. 
...  In  her  mind  blazed  the  coloured  bars  of  the  spectrum. 
In  the  room  was  the  light  of  the  beauty,  the  startling  life 
these  two  old  people  shed  from  every  part  of  their  persons. 
The  room  blazed  in  the  light  they  shed.  She  stood  staring, 
moving  to  wratch  their  gentle  living  movements.  They 
moved  as  though  the  air  through  which  they  moved  was  a 
living  medium, —  as  though  everything  were  alive  all  round 
them  —  in  a  sort  of  hushed  vitality.  They  were  young. 
She  felt  she  had  never  seen  anyone  so  young.     She  longed 


THE   TUNNEL  121 

to  confront  them  just  once,  to  stand  for  a  moment  the  tide 
in  which  they  lived. 

"Ah  Meesturra  Hancock  —  you  are  a  faceful  votary." 
That's  a  German,  thought  Miriam,  as  the  flattering  deep 
caressing  gutturals  rebounded  dreadfully  from  her  startled 
consciousness.  What  a  determined  intrusion.  How  did 
he  come  to  know  such  a  person?  Glancing  she  met  a  pair 
of  swiftly  calculating  eyes  fixed  full  on  her  face.  There 
was  fuzzy  black  hair  lifted  back  from  an  anxious,  yellowish, 
preoccupied  little  face.  Under  the  face  came  the  high 
collar-band  of  a  tightly-fitting  dark  claret-coloured  ribbed 
silk  bodice,  fastened  from  the  neck  to  the  end  of  the  pointed 
peak  by  a  row  of  small  round  German  buttons,  closely 
decorated  with  a  gilded  pattern.  Mr.  Hancock  was  smiling 
an  indulgent,  deprecating  smile.  He  made  an  introduction 
and  Miriam  felt  her  hand  tightly  clasped  and  held  by  a 
small  compelling  hand,  while  she  sought  for  an  answer  to  a 
challenge  as  to  her  interest  in  science.  "  I  don't  really 
know  anything  about  it "  she  said  vaguely,  strongly  urged 
to  display  her  knowledge  of  German.  The  eyes  were  re- 
moved from  her  face  and  the  little  lady  boldly  planted 
and  gazing  about  her  made  announcements  to  Mr.  Hancock 
—  about  the  fascinating  subject  of  the  lecture  and  her  hopes 
of  a  large  and  appreciative  audience. 

What  did  she  want?  She  could  not  possibly  fail  to  see 
that  Mr.  Hancock  was  telling  her  that  he  could  see  through 
her  social  insincerities.  It  was  dreadful  to  find  that  even 
here  there  were  social  insincerities.  She  was  like  a  busy 
ambassador  for  things  that  belonged  somewhere  else  and 
that  he  was  laughing  at  in  an  indulgent,  deprecating  way 
that  must  make  her  blaze  with  an  anger  that  she  did  not 
show.  Looking  at  her  as  her  eyes  and  mouth  made  and 
fired  their  busy  sentences,  Miriam  suddenly  felt  that  it 
would  be  easy  to  deal  with  her,  take  her  into  a  corner  and 


122  THE   TUNNEL 

talk  about  German  things,  food  and  love  affairs  and  poetry 
and  music.  But  she  would  always  be  breaking  away  to 
make  a  determined  intrusion  on  somebody  she  knew.  She 
could  not  really  know  any  English  person.  What  was  she 
doing,  bearing  herself  so  easily  in  the  inner  circle  of  English 
science?  Treating  people  as  if  she  knew  all  about  them 
and  they  were  all  alike.  How  surprised  she  must  often  be, 
and  puzzled. 

6 

"  That  was  Miss  Teresa  Szigmondy  "  said  Hancock,  re- 
producing his  amused  smile  as  they  took  their  seats  in  the 
dark  theatre. 

"  Is  she  German?  " 

"  Well  ...  I  think,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she's  part  Aus- 
tro-Hungarian  and  part  —  well,  Hebrew."  A  Jewess  .  .  . 
Miriam  left  her  surroundings,  pondering  over  a  sudden 
little  thread  of  memory.  An  eager,  very  bright-eyed, 
curiously  dimpling  school-girl  face  peering  into  hers,  and 
a  whispering  voice  —  "  D'you  know  why  we  don't  go  down 
to  prayers?  'Cos  we're  Jews" — they  had  always  been 
late ;  fresh  faced  and  shiny  haired  and  untidy  and  late  and 
clever  in  a  strange  brisk  way  and  talkative  and  easy  and 
popular  with  the  teachers.  .  .  .  Their  guttural  voices  ring- 
ing out  about  the  stairs  and  passages,  deep  and  loud  and 
stronger  than  any  of  the  voices  of  the  other  girls.  The 
Hyamson  girls  —  they  had  been  foreigners,  like  the  Siggs 
and  the  de  Bevers,  but  different  .  .  .  what  was  the  differ- 
ence in  a  Jew?  Mr.  Hancock  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  sort 
of  disgraceful  joke  .  .  .  what  was  it?  Max  Sonnenheim 
had  been  a  Jew,  of  course,  the  same  voice.  Banbury  Park 
"  full  of  Jews  "...  the  Brooms  said  that  in  patient  con- 
temptuous voices.  But  what  was  it?  What  did  every- 
body mean  about  them? 


THE   TUNNEL  123 

"  Is  she  scientific?  " 

"  She  seems  to  be  interested  in  science "  smiled  Mr. 
Hancock. 

"  How  funny  of  her  to  ask  me  to  go  to  tea  with  her  just 
because  you  told  her  I  knew  German." 

"  Well,  you  go ;  if  you're  interested  in  seeing  notabilities 
you'll  meet  all  kinds  of  wonderful  people  at  her  house.  She 
knows  everybody.  She's  the  niece  of  a  great  Hungarian 
poet.  I  believe  he's  to  be  seen  there  sometimes.  They're 
all  coming  in  now."  Mr.  Hancock  named  the  great  names 
of  science  one  by  one  as  the  shyly  gentle  and  the  pompously 
gentle  little  old  men  ambled  and  marched  into  the  well 
of  the  theatre  and  took  their  seats  in  a  circle  round  the 
central  green  table. 

7 

"  There's  a  pretty  lady  "  said  Mr.  Hancock,  conversa- 
tionally, just  as  the  light  was  lowered.  Miriam  glanced 
across  the  half  circle  of  faintly  shining  faces  and  saw  an 
effect,  a  smoothly  coiffured  head  and  smooth  neck  and 
shoulders  draped  by  a  low  deep  circular  flounce  of  lace  ris- 
ing from  the  gloom  of  a  dark  dress,  sweep  in  through  a  side 
door  bending  and  swaying  — "  or  a  pretty  dress  at  any 
rate  " —  and  sat  through  the  first  minutes  of  the  lecture, 
recalling  the  bearing  and  manner  of  the  figure,  with  sad 
fierce  bitterness.  Mr.  Hancock  admired  "  feminine " 
women  ...  or  at  any  rate  he  was  bored  by  her  own  heavy 
silence  and  driven  into  random  speech  by  the  sudden  dip 
and  sweep  of  the  lace  appearing  in  the  light  of  the  doorway. 
He  was  surprised  himself  by  his  sudden  speech  and  half 
corrected  it  ..."  or  a  pretty  dress."  .  .  .  But  anyhow  he, 
even  he,  was  one  of  those  men  who  do  not  know  that  an 
effect  like  that  was  just  an  effect,  a  deliberate  "  charming  " 
feminine  effect.     But  if  he  did  not  know  that,  did  not  know 


i24  THE    TUNNEL 

that  it  was  a  trick  and  the  whole  advertising  manner,  the 
delicate,  plunging  fall  of  the  feet  down  the  steps  —  "I  am 
late ;  look  how  nicely  and  quietly  I  am  doing  it ;  look  at  me 
being  late  and  apologetic  and  interested" — out  of  place 
in  the  circumstances,  then  what  was  he  doing  here  at  all? 
Did  he  want  science  or  would  he  really  rather  be  in  a  draw- 
ing room  with  "  pretty  ladies  "  advertising  effects  and  being 
"arch"  in  a  polite,  dignified,  lady-like  manner?  How 
dingy  and  dull  and  unromantic  and  unfeminine  he  must 
find  her.  She  sat  in  a  lively  misery,  following  the  whirling 
circle  of  thoughts  round  and  round,  stabbed  by  their  dull 
thorns,  and  trying  to  drag  her  pain-darkened  mind  to  meet 
the  claim  of  the  platform,  where,  in  a  square  of  clear  light, 
a  little  figure  stood  talking  eagerly  and  quietly  in  careful 
slow  English.  Presently  the  voice  on  the  platform  won 
her  —  clear  and  with  its  curious,  even,  unaccented  rat-tat- 
tat  flowing  and  modulated  with  pure  passion,  the  thrill  of 
truth  and  revelation  running  alive  and  life-giving  through 
every  word.  That,  at  least,  she  was  sharing  with  her  com- 
panion .  .  .  development-in-thee-method-of-intaircepting- 
thee-light."  "  Daguerre  "...  a  little  Frenchman  stopping 
the  sunlight,  breaking  it  up,  making  it  paint  faces  in  filmy 
black  and  white  on  a  glass.  .  .  .  There  would  only  be  a 
few  women  like  the  one  with  the  frill  in  an  audience  like 
this  ..."  women  will  talk  shamelessly  at  a  concert  or  an 
opera,  and  chatter  on  a  mountain  top  in  the  presence  of  a 
magnificent  panorama ;  their  paganism  is  incurable."  Then 
men  mustn't  stare  at  them  and  treat  them  as  works  of  art. 
It  was  entirely  the  fault  of  men  .  .  .  perfectly  reasonable 
that  the  women  who  got  that  sort  of  admiration  from  men 
should  assert  themselves  in  the  presence  of  other  works  of 
art.  The  thing  men  called  the  noblest  work  of  God  must 
be  bigger  than  the  work  by  a  man.  Men  plumed  them- 
selves  and   talked   in   a  clever   expert  way   about   women 


THE   TUNNEL  125 

and  never  thought  of  their  own  share  in  the  way  those 
women  went  on  .  .  .  unfair,  unfair ;  men  were  stupid  com- 
placent idiots.  But  they  were  wonderful  with  their  brains. 
The  life  and  air  and  fresh  breath  coming  up  from  the  plat- 
form amongst  the  miseries  and  uncertainties  lurking  in  the 
audience  was  a  man  .  .  .  waves  of  light  which  would  rush 
through  the  film  at  an  enormous  speed  and  get  away  into 
space  without  leaving  any  impression  were  stopped  by 
some  special  kind  of  film  and  went  surging  up  and  down 
in  confinement  —  making  strata  .  .  .  supairposeetion  of 
strata  ...  no  Englishman  could  move  his  hands  with  that 
smoothness,  making  you  see  "  Violet  subchloride  of 
silver."  That  would  interest  Mr.  Hancock's  chemistry. 
She  glanced  at  the  figure  sitting  very  still,  with  bent  head, 
at  her  side.  He  was  asleep.  Her  thoughts  recoiled  from 
the  platform  and  bent  inwards,  circling  on  their  miseries. 
That  was  the  end,  for  him,  of  coming  to  a  lecture  with  her. 
If  she  had  been  the  frilled  lady,  sitting  forward  with  her 
forward-falling  frill,  patronising  the  lecture  and  "  exhibit- 
ing "  her  interest  he  would  not  have  gone  to  sleep. 

8 

When  the  colour  photographs  came,  Miriam  was  too 
happy  for  thought.  Pictures  of  stained  glass,  hard  crude 
clear  brilliant  opaque  flat  colour,  stood  in  miraculous 
squares  on  the  screen  and  pieces  of  gardens,  grass  and 
flowers  and  trees  shining  with  a  shadeless  blinding  brilliance. 

She  made  vague  sounds.  "  It's  a  wonderful  achieve- 
ment "  said  Mr.  Hancock,  smiling  with  grave  delighted  ap- 
proval towards  the  screen.  Miriam  felt  that  he  under- 
stood, as  her  ignorance  could  not  do,  exactly  what  it  all 
meant  scientifically;  but  there  was  something  else  in  the 
things  as  they  stood,  blinding,  there  that  he  did  not  see. 
It  was  something  that  she  had  seen  somewhere,  often. 


126  THE   TUNNEL 

"  They'll  never  touch  pictures." 

"  Oh  no  —  there's  no  atmosphere ;  but  there's  something 
else ;  they're  exactly  like  something  else.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Hancock  laughed,  a  little  final  crushing  laugh  that 
turned  away  sceptical  of   further  enlightenment. 

Miriam  sat  silent,  busily  searching  for  something  to 
express  the  effect  she  felt.  But  she  could  not  tell  him  what 
she  felt.  There  was  something  in  this  intense  hard  rich 
colour  like  something  one  sometimes  saw  when  it  wasn't 
there,  a  sudden  brightening  and  brightening  of  all  colours 
till  you  felt  something  must  break  if  they  grew  any  brighter 
—  or  in  the  dark,  or  in  one's  mind,  suddenly,  at  any  time, 
unearthly  brilliance.  He  would  laugh  and  think  one  a  little 
insane ;  but  it  was  the  real  certain  thing ;  the  one  real  cer- 
tain happy  thing.  And  he  would  not  have  patience  to 
hear  her  try  to  explain;  and  by  that  he  robbed  her  of  the 
power  of  trying  to  explain.  He  was  not  interested  in  what 
she  thought.  Not  interested.  His  own  thoughts  were 
statements,  things  that  had  been  agreed  upon  and  disputed 
and  that  people  bandied  about,  competing  with  each  other 
to  put  them  cleverly.  They  were  not  things.  It  was  only 
by  pretending  to  be  interested  in  these  statements  and  tak- 
ing sides  about  them  that  she  could  have  conversation  with 
him.  He  liked  women  who  thought  in  these  statements. 
They  always  succeeded  with  men.  They  had  a  reputation 
for  wit.  Did  they  really  think  and  take  an  interest  in  the 
things  they  said,  or  was  it  a  trick,  like  "  clothes "  and 
"  manners " —  or  was  it  that  women  brought  up  with 
brothers  or  living  with  husbands  got  into  that  way  of  think- 
ing and  speaking.  Perhaps  there  was  something  in  it. 
Something  worth  cultivating ;  a  fine  talent.  But  it  would 
mean  hiding  so  much,  letting  so  much  go ;  all  the  real  things. 
The  things  men  never  seemed  to  know  about  at  all.  Yet 
he  loved  beautiful  things;  and  worried  about  religion  and 


THE   TUNNEL  127 

had  found  comfort  in  "  Literature  and  Dogma "  and 
wanted  her  to  find  comfort  in  it,  assuming  her  difficulties 
were  the  same  as  his  own;  and  knowing  the  dreadfulness 
of  them.  The  brilliant  unearthly  pictures  remained  in  her 
mind,  supporting  her  through  the  trial  of  her  consciousness 
of  the  stuffiness  of  her  one  long-worn  dress.  Dresses 
should  be  fragrant  in  the  evening.  The  Newlands  even- 
ing dress  was  too  old  fashioned.  Things  had  changed  so 
utterly  since  last  year.  There  was  no  money  to  have  it 
altered.  But  this  was  awful.  Never  again  could  she  go  out 
in  the  evening,  unless  alone  or  with  the  girls.  That  would 
be  best,  and  happiest,  really. 


CHAPTER    VI 


MIRIAM  sat  on  a  damp  wooden  seat  at  the  station. 
Shivering  with  exhaustion,  she  looked  across  at 
tie  early  morning  distance,  misty  black  and  faint  misty 
green.  .  .  .  Something  had  happened  to  it.  It  was  not 
beautiful;  or  anything.  It  was  not  anything.  .  .  .  That 
was  the  punishment.  .  .  .  The  landscape  was  dead.  All 
that  had  come  to  an  end.  Her  nimble  lifeless  mind  noted 
the  fact.  There  was  dismay  in  it.  Staring  at  the  land- 
scape she  felt  the  lifelessness  of  her  face;  as  if  something 
had  brushed  across  it  and  swept  the  life  away,  leaving  her 
only  sight.     She  could  never  feel  any  more. 

» 

Behind  her  fixed  eyes  something  new  seemed  moving 
forward  with  a  strange  indifference.  Suddenly  the  land- 
scape unrolled.  The  rim  of  the  horizon  was  no  longer 
the  edge  of  the  world.  She  lost  sight  of  it  in  the  rolling 
out  of  the  landscape  in  her  mind,  out  and  out,  in  a  light 
easy  stretch,  showing  towns  and  open  country  and  towns 
again,  seas  and  continents  on  and  on ;  empty  and  still. 
A'o thing.  Everywhere  in  the  world  nothing.  She  drifted 
back  to  herself  and  clung,  bracing  herself.  She  was  some- 
body. If  she  was  somebody  who  was  going  to  do  some- 
thing ...  not  roll  trolleys  along  a  platform.  The  train 
swept  busily  into  the  landscape;  the  black  engine,  the 
brown,  white-panelled  carriages,  warm  and  alive  in  the 
empty    landscape,      Her    strained    nerves    relaxed.      In    a 

128 


THE   TUNNEL  129 

moment  she  would  be  inside  it,  being  carried  back  into  her 
own  world.  She  felt  eagerly  forward  towards  it.  Hearts- 
ease was  there.  She  would  be  able  to  breathe  again.  But 
not  in  the  same  way ;  unless  she  could  forget.  There  were 
other  eyes  looking  at  it.  They  were  inside  her;  not  caring 
for  the  things  she  had  cared  for,  dragging  her  away  from 
them. 

They  are  not  my  sort  of  people.  Alma  does  not  care  for 
me  personally.  Little  cries  and  excitement  and  affection. 
She  wants  to ;  but  she  does  not  care  for  anyone  personally. 
Neither  of  them  do.  They  live  in  a  world.  ..."  Michael 
Angelo"  and  "Stevenson"  and  "Hardy"  and  "  Durer  " 
and  that  other  man,  .  .  .  Alma  .  .  .  popping  and  sweep- 
ing gracefully  about  with  little  cries  and  clever  sayings  and 
laughter,  trying  to  be  real;  in  a  bright  outside  way,  show- 
ing all  the  inside  things  because  she  kept  crushing  them 
down.  It  was  so  tiring  that  one  could  not  like  being  with 
her.  She  seemed  to  be  carrying  something  off  all  the  time ; 
and  to  be  as  if  she  were  afraid  if  the  talk  stopped  for  a 
moment,  it  would  be  revealed. 

In  the  teashop  with  Alma  alone  it  had  been  different; 
all  the  old  school-days  coming  back  as  she  sat  there.  Her 
eager  story.  It  was  impossible  to  do  anything  but  hold 
her  hands  and  admire  her  bravery  and  say  you  did  not  care. 
But  it  was  not  quite  real ;  it  was  too  excited  and  it  was 
wrong,  certainly  wrong,  to  go  down  not  really  caring.  I 
need  not  go  down  again. 

2 

Cold  and  torpid  she  got  up  and  stepped  into  an  empty 
carriage.  Both  windows  were  shut  and  the  dry  stuffy  air 
seemed  almost  warm  after  her  exposure.  She  let  one  down 
a  little ;  sheltered  from  the  damp  the  little  stream  of  out- 


i3o  THE   TUNNEL 

side  air  was  welcome  and  refreshing.  She  breathed  deeply, 
safe,  shut  in  and  moving  on.  With  an  unnecessarily  vigor- 
ous swing  of  her  arms  she  hoisted  her  pilgrim  basket  on  to 
the  rack.  Of  course,  she  murmured  smiling,  of  course  I 
shall  go  down  again  .  .  .  rather. 

3 

That  extraordinary  ending  of  fear  of  the  great  man  at 
the  station.  Alma  and  the  little  fair  square  man  not  much 
taller  than  herself  looking  like  a  grocer's  assistant  with  a 
curious  kind  confidential  .  .  .  unprejudiced  eye  .  .  .  they 
had  come,  both  of  them,  out  of  their  house  to  the  station 
to  meet  her  ..."  this  is  Hypo  "  and  the  quiet  shy  walk 
to  the  house  he  asking  questions  by  saying  them  —  state- 
ments. You  caught  the  elusive  three-fifteen.  This  is 
your  bag.  We  can  carry  it  off  without  waiting  for  the 
.  .  .  British  porter.  You've  done  your  journey  brilliantly. 
We  haven't  far  to  walk. 

4 

The  strange  shock  of  the  bedroom,  the  strange  new  thing 
springing  out  from  it  .  .  .  the  clear  soft  bright  tones,  the 
bright  white  light  streaming  through  the  clear  muslin,  the 
freshness  of  the  walls  .  .  .  the  flattened  dumpy  shapes  of 
dark  green  bedroom  crockery  gleaming  in  a  corner ;  the 
little  green  bowl  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  white  spread 
of  the  dressing  table  cover  .  .  .  wild  violets  with  green 
leaves  and  tendrils  put  there  by  somebody  with  each  leaf 
and  blossom  standing  separate  .  .  .  touching  your  heart ; 
joy,  looking  from  the  speaking  pale  mauve  little  flowers  to 
the  curved  rim  of  the  green  bowl  and  away  to  the  green 
crockery  in  the  corner ;  again  and  again  the  fresh  shock 
of  the  violets  .  .  .  the  little  cold  change  in  the  room  after 
the  books,  strange  fresh  bindings  and  fascinating  odd  shapes 


THE   TUNNEL  131 

and  sizes,  gave  out  their  names  .  .  .  The  White  Boat  — 
Praxiter — King  Chance  —  Mrs.  Prendergast's  Palings 
.  .  .  the  promise  of  them  in  their  tilted  wooden  case  by  the 
bedside  table  from  every  part  of  the  room,  their  unchanged 
names,  the  chill  of  the  strange  sentences  inside  —  like  a  sort 
of  code  written  for  people  who  understood,  written  at 
something,  clever  raised  voices  in  a  cold  world.  In  Mrs. 
Prendergast's  Palings  there  were  cockney  conversations 
spelt  as  they  were  spoken.  None  of  the  books  were  about 
ordinary  people  .  .  .  three  men,  seamen,  alone,  getting 
swamped  in  a  boat  in  shallow  water  in  sight  of  land  ...  a 
man  and  a  girl  he  had  no  right  to  be  with  wandering  on  the 
sands,  the  cold  wash  and  sob  of  the  sea;  her  sudden  cold 
salt  tears;  the  warmth  of  her  shuddering  body.  Praxiter 
beginning  without  telling  you  anything,  about  the  thoughts 
of  an  irritating  contemptuous  superior  man,  talking  at  the 
expense  of  everybody.  Nothing  in  any  of  them  about 
anything  one  knew  or  felt;  casting  you  off  .  .  .  giving  a 
chill  ache  to  the  room.  To  sit  .  .  .  alone,  reading  in  the 
white  light,  amongst  the  fresh  colours  —  but  not  these 
books.  To  go  downstairs  was  a  sacrifice :  coming  back 
there  would  be  the  lighting  of  the  copper  candlestick,  twist- 
ing beautifully  up  from  its  stout  stem.  What  made  it  diff- 
erent to  ordinary  candlesticks?  IV hat f  It  was  like  ...  a 
gesture. 


"  You  knew  Susan  at  school."  The  brown,  tweed- 
covered  arm  of  the  little  square  figure  handed  a  tea-cup. 
The  high  huskily  hooting  voice  .  .  .  what  was  the  over- 
whelming impression?  A  common  voice,  with  a  cockney 
twang.  Overwhelming.  "  What  was  Susan  like  at 
school  ?  "  The  voice  was  saying  two  things ;  that  was  it ; 
doing  something  deliberately;  it  was  shy  and  determined 


133  THE    TUNNEL 

and  deliberate  and  expectant.  Miriam  glanced  incredul- 
ously, summoning  all  her  forces  against  her  sense  of  strange 
direct  attack,  pushing  through  and  out  to  some  unknown 
place,  dreading  her  first  words,  not  taking  in  a  further  re- 
mark of  the  live  voice.  She  could  get  up  and  go  away  for 
ever ;  or  speak  and  whatever  she  spoke  would  keep  her  there 
for  ever.  Alma,  sitting  behind  the  tea-tray  in  a  green 
Alma  dress  with  small  muslin  cuffs  and  collars  had  be- 
trayed her  into  this.  Alma  had  been  got  by  this  and  had 
brought  her  to  the  test  of  it.  The  brown  walls,  brown 
paper  all  over,  like  parcel  paper  and  Japanese  prints ;  noth- 
ing else,  high-backed  curious  shaped  wooden  chairs  all  with 
gestures,  like  the  candlestick,  and  the  voice  that  was  in  the 
same  difficult,  different  world  as  the  books  upstairs.  .  .  . 
Alma  had  betrayed  her,  talking  as  if  they  were  like  other 
people  and  not  saying  anything  about  this  strange  cold  dif- 
ference. Alma  had  come  to  it  and  was  playing  some  part 
she  had  taken  up  .  .  .  there  was  some  wrong  hurried  rush 
somewhere  within  the  beautiful  room.  Stop,  she  wanted 
to  say,  you're  all  wrong.  You've  dropped  something  you 
don't  know  anything  about  deliberately.  Alma  ought  to 
have  told  you.     Hasn't  she  told  you? 

"  Alma  hasn't  changed  "  she  said,  desperately  questioning 
the  smooth  soft  movements  of  the  smooth  soft  hands,  the 
quiet  controlled  pose  of  the  head.  Alma  had  the  same 
birdlike  wide  blink  and  flash  of  her  limpid  brown  eyes,  the 
same  tight  crinkle  and  snicker  when  she  laughed,  the  same 
way  of  saying  nothing  or  only  the  clever  superficially  true 
things  men  said.  Alma  had  agreed  with  this  man  and  had 
told  him  nothing  or  only  things  in  the  clever  way  he  would 
admire. 

He  made  little  sounds  into  his  handkerchief.  He  was 
nonplussed  at  a  dull  answer.  It  would  be  necessary  to  be 
brilliant  and  amusing  to  hold  his  attention  —  in  fact  to  tell 


THE    TUNNEL  133 

lies.     To  get  on  here  one  would  have  to  say  clever  things 
in  a  high  bright  voice. 

The  little  man  began  making  statements  about  Alma. 
Sitting  back  in  his  high-backed  chair  with  his  head  bent 
and  his  small  fine  hands  clasping  his  large  handkerchief  he 
made  little  short  statements,  each  improving  on  the  one 
before  it  and  coming  out  of  it,  and  little  subdued  snortings 
at  the  back  of  his  nose  in  the  pauses  between  his  sentences 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  being  answered  or  interrupted  be- 
fore he  developed  the  next  thing.  Alma  accompanied  his 
discourse  with  increasing  snickerings.  Miriam  after  eagerly 
watching  the  curious  mouthing  half  hidden  by  the  droop- 
ing straggle  of  moustache  and  the  strange  concentrated 
gleam  of  the  grey  blue  eyes  staring  into  space,  laughed 
outright.  But  how  could  he  speak  so  of  her?  He  met  the 
laughter  with  a  minatory  outstretched  forefinger,  and  raised 
his  voice  to  a  soft  squeal  ending  as  he  launched  with  a  little 
throw  of  the  hand  his  final  jest,  in  a  rotund  crackle  of  high 
hysterical  open-mouthed  laughter.  The  door  opened  and 
two  tall  people  were  shown  in ;  a  woman  with  a  narrow 
figure  and  a  long  dark-curtained  sallow  horse-like  face, 
dressed  in  a  black  striped  cream  serge  coat  and  skirt  and  a 
fair  florid  trouble  fickle  smiling  man  in  a  Norfolk  tweed 
and  pale  blue  tie.  "  Hullo  "  said  the  little  man  propelling 
himself  out  of  his  chair  with  a  neat  swift  gesture  and  stand- 
ing small  and  square  in  the  room  making  cordial  sounds  and 
moving  his  arms  about  as  if  to  introduce  and  seat  his  guests 
without  words  and  formalities.  Alma's  thin  excited  hub- 
bub and  the  clearly  enunciated,  obviously  prepared  facet- 
iousnesses  of  the  newcomers  —  his  large  and  tenor  and 
florid  ...  a  less  clever  man  than  Mr.  Wilson  .  .  .  and 
hers  bass  and  crisp  and  contemptuous  .  .  .  nothing  was 
hidden  from  her;  she  would  like  the  queer  odd  people  who 
went  about  at  Tansley  Street  *=»  was  broken  into  by  the  en^ 


134  THE    TUNNEL 

try  of  three  small  young  men,  all  three  dark  and  a  little 
grubby  and  shabby  looking.  The  foremost  stood  with  vivid 
eager  eyes  wide  open  as  if  he  had  been  suddenly  checked 
in  the  midst  of  imparting  an  important  piece  of  news.  Alma 
came  forward  to  where  they  stood  herded  and  silent  just 
inside  the  door  and  made  little  faint  encouraging  maternal 
sounds  at  them  as  she  shook  hands. 

As  she  did  this  Miriam  figured  them  in  a  flash  coming 
down  the  road  to  the  house ;  their  young  men's  talk  and 
arguments,  their  certainty  of  Tightness  and  completeness, 
their  sudden  embarrassment  and  secret  anger  with  their 
precipitate  rescuer.  Mr.  Wilson  was  on  his  feet  again,  not 
looking  at  them  nor  breaking  up  the  circle  already  made, 
but  again  making  his  sociable  sounds  and  circular  move- 
ments with  his  arms  as  if  to  introduce  and  distribute  them 
about  the  room.  The  husband  and  wife  kept  on  a  dialogue 
in  strained  social  voices  as  if  they  were  bent  on  showing 
that  their  performance  was  not  dependant  on  an  audience. 
Miriam  averted  her  eyes  from  them,  overcome  by  painful 
visions  of  the  two  at  breakfast  or  going  home  after  social 
occasions.  The  three  young  men  retreated  to  the  window 
alcove  behind  the  tea-table  one  of  them  becoming  Miriam's 
neighbour  as  she  sat  in  the  corner  near  the  piano  whither 
she  had  fled  from  the  centre  of  the  room  when  the  husband 
and  wife  came  in. 

It  was  the  young  man  with  the  important  piece  of  news. 
He  sat  bent  forward  holding  his  cup  and  plate  with  out- 
stretched arms.  His  headlong  expression  remained  un- 
changed. Wisps  of  black  hair  stood  eagerly  out  from  his 
head  and  a  heavy  thatch  fell  nearly  to  his  eyebrows.  "  Did 
anybody  see  anything  of  Mrs.  Binks  at  the  station  ?  "  asked 
Alma  from  her  table.  "  Oh  my  dear  "  she  squealed  gently 
as  the  maid  ushered  in  a  little  lady  in  a  straight  dress  of  red 
flannel   frilled  with  black  chiffon  at  the  neck  and  wrists, 


THE   TUNNEL  135 

"  we  were  all  afraid  you  weren't  coming."  "  Don't  any- 
body move  " —  the  deep  reedy  voice  reverberated  amongst 
the  standing  figures;  the  firm  compact  undulating  figure 
came  across  the  room  to  Alma.  Its  light-footed  swiftness 
and  easy  certainty  filled  Miriam  with  envy.  The  envy 
evaporated  during  the  embracing  of  Alma  and  the  general 
handshaking.  The  low  strong  reedy  voice  went  on  saying 
things  out  into  the  silence  of  the  room  in  a  steady  complete 
way.  There  was  something  behind  it  all  that  did  not  show, 
or  showed  in  the  brilliant  ease,  something  that  Miriam  did 
not  envy.  She  tried  to  discover  what  it  was  as  the  room 
settled,  leaving  Mrs.  Binkley  on  a  low  chair  near  to  Alma 
taking  tea  and  going  on  with  her  monologue,  each  of  her 
pauses  punctuated  by  soft  appreciative  sounds  from  Alma 
and  little  sounds  from  Mr.  Wilson.  She  was  popular  with 
them.  Mr.  Wilson  sat  surveying  her.  Did  they  know  how 
hard  she  was  working?  Perhaps  they  did  and  admired 
or  even  envied  it.  But  what  was  it  for?  Surely  she  must 
feel  the  opposition  in  the  room?  Alma  and  Mr.  Wilson 
approved  and  encouraged  her  exhibition.  She  was  in  their 
curious  league  for  keeping  going  high-voiced  clever  sayings. 
So  had  the  husband  appeared  to  be  at  first.  Now  he  sat 
silent  with  a  kind  polite  expression  about  his  head  and  fig- 
ure. But  his  mouth  was  uneasy,  he  was  afraid  of  some- 
thing or  somebody  and  was  staring  at  Mrs.  Binkley.  The 
wife  sat  in  a  gloomy  abstraction  smoking  a  large  cigar- 
ette .  .  .  she  was  something  like  Mrs.  Kronen  in  her  way; 
only  instead  of  belonging  to  South  Africa  she  had  been  a 
hard  featured  English  school-girl ;  she  was  still  a  hard-fea- 
tured English  school-girl,  with  the  oldest  eyes  Miriam  had 
ever  seen. 

"  Why  not  write  an  article  about  a  lamp-post  ? "  said 
one  of  the  young  men  suddenly  in  a  gruff  voice  in  answer 
to  a  gradually  growing  murmur  of  communications  from 


136  THE   TUNNEL 

one  of  his  companions.  Miriam  breathed  easier  air.  The 
shameful  irritating  tension  was  over.  It  was  as  if  fresh 
wonderful  life-giving  things  that  were  hovering  in  the 
room,  driven  back  into  corners,  pressing  up  and  away 
against  the  angles  of  the  ceiling  and  about  the  window- 
door  behind  the  young  men  and  against  the  far-away  door 
of  the  room,  came  back,  flooding  all  the  spaces  of  the  room. 
Mr.  Wilson  moved  in  his  chair,  using  his  handkerchief 
towards  the  young  men  with  an  eye  on  the  speaker.  "  Or 
a  whole  book  "  murmured  the  young  man  farthest  from 
Miriam  in  an  eager  cockney  voice.  The  two  young  men 
were  speaking  towards  Mr.  Wilson,  obviously  trying  to  draw 
him  in,  bringing  along  one  of  his  topics ;  something  that 
had  been  discussed  here  before.  There  would  be  talk, 
men's  talk,  argument  and  showing  off;  but  there  would  be 
something  alive  in  the  room.  In  the  conflict  there  would 
be  ideas,  wrong  ideas,  men  taking  sides,  both  right  and  both 
wrong;  men  showing  off;  but  wanting  with  all  their  wrong- 
ness  to  get  at  something.  Perhaps  somebody  would  say 
something.  She  regretted  her  shy  refusal  of  a  cigarette 
from  Mr.  Wilson's  large  full  box.  It  stood  open  now  by 
the  side  of  the  tea-tray.  He  would  not  offer  it  again. 
Cigarettes  and  talk.  .  .  .  What  would  Mr.  Hancock  think? 
"  People  do  not  meet  together  for  conversation,  nowa- 
days." .  .  .  There  was  going  to  be  conversation,  literary 
conversation  and  she  was  going  to  hear  it  ...  be  in  it. 
Clever  literary  people  trying  to  say  things  well;  of  course 
they  were  all  literary ;  they  were  all  the  same  set,  knowing 
each  other,  all  calling  Mr.  Wilson  "Hypo";  talk  about 
books  was  the  usual  Saturday  afternoon  thing  here ;  and 
she  was  in  it  and  would  be  able  to  be  in  it  again,  any  week. 
It  was  miraculous.  All  these  people  were  special  people, 
emancipated  people.  Probably  they  all  wrote,  except  the 
women.     There  were  too  many  women.     Somehow  or  other 


THE   TUNNEL  137 

she  must  get  a  cigarette.  Life,  suddenly  full  of  new  things 
made  her  bold.  Presently,  when  the  conversation  was 
general  she  would  beg  one  of  the  young  man  at  her  side. 
Mr.  Wilson  would  not  turn  to  her  again.  She  had  failed 
twice  already  in  relation  to  him ;  but  after  her  lame  refusal 
of  the  cigarette  which  he  had  accepted  instantly  and  sat 
down  with,  he  had  glanced  sharply  at  her  in  a  curious  per- 
sonal way,  noticing  the  little  flat  square  of  white  collarette 
—  the  knot  of  violets  upon  it,  the  long-sleeved  black  nun's- 
veiling  blouse,  the  long  skirt  of  her  old  silkette  evening 
dress.  These  items  had  made  her  sick  with  anxiety  in  their 
separate  poverty  as  she  put  them  on  for  the  visit ;  but  his 
eyes  seemed  to  draw  them  all  together.  Perhaps  there  in 
the  dark  corner  they  made  a  sort  of  whole.  She  rejoiced 
gratefully  in  the  memory  of  Mag's  factory  girl,  in  her  own 
idea  of  having  the  sleeves  gauged  at  the  wrists  in  defiance 
of  fashion,  to  make  frills  extending  so  as  partly  to  cover 
her  large  hands ;  over  the  suddenly  realised  possibility  of 
wearing  the  silkette  skirt  as  a  day  skirt.  She  must  remain 
in  the  corner,  not  moving,  all  the  afternoon.  If  she  moved 
in  the  room  the  bright  light  would  show  the  scrappiness  of 
her  clothes.  In  the  evening  it  would  be  all  right.  She  sat 
back  in  her  corner,  happy,  and  forgetful.  She  had  not 
had  so  much  tea  as  she  wanted.  She  had  refused  the 
cigarette  against  her  will.  Now  she  was  alive.  These 
weak  things  would  not  happen  again,  and  next  time  she 
would  bring  her  own  cigarettes.  To  take  out  a  cigarette 
and  light  it  here,  at  home  amongst  her  own  people.  These 
were  her  people.  There  was  something  here  in  the  exciting 
air  that  she  did  not  understand ;  something  that  was  going 
to  tax  her  more  than  she  had  ever  been  taxed  before.  She 
had  found  her  way  to  it  through  her  wanderings ;  it  had 
come;  it  was  her  due.  It  corresponded  to  something  in 
herself,  shapeless  and  inexpressible ;  but  there.     She  knew 


138  THE    TUNNEL 

it  by  herself,  sitting  in  her  corner;  her  own  people  would 
know  it,  if  they  could  see  her  here;  but  no  one  here  would 
find  it  out.  Every  one  here  was  doing  something;  or  the 
wife  of  somebody  who  did  something.  They  were  like  a 
sort  of  secret  society  ...  all  agreed  about  something  .  .  . 
about  what?  What  was  it  Mr.  Wilson  was  so  sure  about? 
.  .  .  They  would  despise  everybody  who  was  living  an  or- 
dinary life,  or  earning  a  living  in  anything  but  something 
to  do  with  books.  Seeing  her  there  they  would  take  for 
granted  that  she  too,  was  somebody  -  .  .  and  she  was  some- 
how, within  herself  somewhere;  although  she  had  made  her- 
self into  a  dentist's  secretary.  She  was  better  qualified  to 
be  here  and  to  understand  the  strange  secret  here,  in  the 
end,  than  anyone  else  she  knew.  But  it  was  a  false  position, 
unless  they  all  know  what  she  was.  If  she  could  say  clever 
things  they  would  like  her:  but  she  would  be  like  Alma 
and  Mrs.  Binkley;  pretending;  and  without  any  man  to 
point  to  as  giving  her  the  right  to  be  about  here.  It  was 
a  false  position.  It  was  as  if  she  were  there  as  a  candidate 
to  become  an  Alma  or  a  Mrs.  Binkley ;  imitating  the  clever 
savings  of  men,  or  flattering  them. 

"Do  it  Gowry,"  said  Mr.  Wilson  ...  "a  book"  .  .  . 
he  made  his  little  sound  behind  his  nose  as  he  felt  for  the 
phrases  that  were  to  come  after  his  next  words  ..."  a 
—  er  —  book;  about  a  lamp-post.  You  see"  he  held  up 
his  minatorv  finger  to  keep  off  an  onslaught  and  quench 
an  eager  monologue  that  began  pouring-  from  Miriam's 
nearest  neighbour,  and  went  on  in  his  high  weak  husky 
voice.  The  young  men  were  quiet.  For  a  few  moments 
the  red  ladv  and  Alma  made  bright  conversation  as  if 
nothing  were  happening:  but  with  a  curious  hard  empti- 
ness in  their  voices,  like  people  rehearsing  and  secretly  angry 
with  each  other.  Then  thev  were  silent,  sitting  posed  and 
attentive,  with  uneasy  intelligent  smiling  faces ;  their  cos- 


THE   TUNNEL  139 

tumes  and  carefully  arranged  hair  useless  on  their  hands. 
Mrs.  Binkley  did  not  suffer  so  much  as  Alma;  her  corset- 
less  eager  crouch  gave  her  the  appearance  of  intentness, 
her  hair  waved  naturally,  had  tendrils  and  could  be  left 
to  look  after  itself ;  her  fresh  easy  strength  was  ready  for 
the  next  opportunity.  It  was  only  something  behind  her 
face  that  belied  her  happy  pose.  Alma  was  waiting  in  some 
curious  fixed  singleness  of  tension;  her  responses  hovered 
fixed  about  her  mouth,  waiting  for  expression,  she  sat  fixed 
in  a  frozen  suspension  of  deliberate  amiability  and  approval, 
approval  of  a  certain  chosen  set  of  things ;  approval  which 
excluded  everything  else  with  derision  ...  it  was  Alma's 
old  derision,  fixed  and  arranged  in  some  way  by  Mr.  Wilson. 
"  There  will  be  books  —  with  all  that  cut  out  —  him  and 
her  —  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The  books  of  the  future  will 
be  clear  of  all  that." 


Miriam  sat  so  enclosed  in  her  unarmed  struggle  with  the 
new  definition  of  a  book  that  the  entry  of  the  newcomers 
left  her  unembarrassed.  Two  rotund  ruddy  men  in  mud- 
spotted  tweeds,  both  fair,  one  with  a  tuft  like  a  cockatoo 
standing  straight  up  from  his  forehead  above  a  smooth 
pink  face,  the  other  older  than  anybody  in  the  room,  with 
a  shaggy  head  and  a  small  pointed  beard.  They  came  in 
talking  aloud  and  stumped  about  the  room,  making  their 
greetings.  Miriam  bowed  twice  and  twice  received  a 
sturdy  handclasp  and  the  kindly  gleam  of  blue  eyes,  one 
pair  large,  mild  and  owl-like  behind  glasses ;  the  other 
fierce  and  glinting,  a  shaft  of  whimiscal  blue  light.  The 
second  pair  of  eyes  surely  would  not  agree  with  what  Mr. 
Wilson  had  been  saying.  But  their  coming  in  had  broken 
a  charm ;  the  overwhelming  charm  of  the  way  he  put 
things ;  so  that  even  while  you  hated  what  he  was  saying 


i4o  TH  E    TUNNEL 

and  his  way  of  stating  things  as  if  they  were  the  final  gospel 
and  no  one  else  in  the  world  knew  anything  at  all,  you 
wanted  him  to  go  on ;  only  to  go  on  and  to  keep  on  going  on. 
It  was  wrong  somehow ;  he  was  all  wrong;  "  though  I  speak 
with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels";  it  was  wrong 
and  somehow  wicked ;  but  it  caught  you,  it  had  caught 
Alma  and  all  these  people ;  and  in  a  sense  he  despised  them 
all,  and  was  talking  to  something  else ;  the  thing  he  knew ; 
the  secret  that  made  him  so  strong,  even  with  his  weak 
voice  and  weak  mouth ;  strong  and  fascinating.  It  was 
wrong  to  be  here ;  it  would  be  wrong  to  come  again ;  but 
there  was  nothing  like  it  anywhere  else ;  no  other  such 
group  of  things ;  and  thought  and  knowledge  of  things. 
More  must  be  heard.  It  would  be  impossible  not  to  risk 
everything  to  hear  more. 

Alma  ordered  fresh  tea ;  Mr.  Wilson  and  the  husband 
and  the  two  new  men  were  standing  about.  The  elder  man 
was  describing  in  a  large  shouting  voice  a  new  mantel- 
piece —  a  Tudor  mantelpiece.  What  was  a  Tudor  mantel- 
piece? ...  to  buy  a  house  to  put  round  it.  What  a  clever 
idea.  .  .  .  Little  Mr.  Wilson  seemed  to  be  listening;  he 
squealed  amendments  of  the  jests  between  the  big  man's 
boomings  .  .  .  buy  a  town  to  put  round  it.  .  .  .  What  a 
lovely  idea  .  .  .  buy  a  nation  to  put  round  it  .  .  .  there 
was  a  burst  of  guffaws.  Mr.  Wilson's  face  was  crimson ; 
his  eyes  appeared  to  be  full  of  tears.  The  big  man  went 
on.  Mrs.  Binkley  kept  uttering  deep  reedy  caressing  laughs. 
Two  of  the  young  men  were  leaning  forward  talking  eagerly 
with  bent  heads.  Miriam's  neighbour  sat  upright  with 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  glaring  as  if  ...  as  if  he 
were  just  going  to  jump  out  of  his  skin.  Hidden  by  the 
increased  stir  made  by  the  re-entry  of  the  maid,  and  en- 
couraged by  the  extraordinary  clamour  of  hilarious  voices 
Miriam  ventured  to  ask  him  if  he  would  perform  an  act  of 


THE   TUNNEL  141 

charity  by  allowing  her  to  rob  him  of  one  of  his  cigarettes. 
She  liked  her  unrecognisable  voice.  It  was  pitched  deep, 
but  strong;  a  little  like  Mrs.  Binkley's.  The  young  man 
started  and  turned  eagerly  towards  her,  stammering  and 
muttering  and  fumbling  about  his  person.  "  I  swear  "  he 
brought  out,  "  I  could  cut  my  throat  .  .  .  my  God  .  .  . 
oh  here  we  are."  Seizing  the  open  box  from  the  tea-table 
he  swung  round  with  his  crossed  legs  extending  across  her 
corner  so  that  she  was  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  room, 
and  held  the  box  eagerly  towards  her.  They  both  took 
cigarettes  and  he  lit  them  with  matches  obtained  from  his 
neighbour.  "  Thank  you  "  said  Miriam  blissfully  drawing 
"  that  has  saved  my  life."  Precipitately  restoring  the 
matches  he  swung  round  again  leaning  forward  with  his 
elbow  on  his  knee,  blocking  out  Miriam's  view.  Before  it 
was  blocked  out  she  had  caught  the  eye  of  Mr.  Wilson 
who  was  standing  facing  her  in  the  little  group  of  men  about 
the  tea-table  and  still  interpolating  their  hubbub  with 
husky  squeals  of  jocularity,  quietly  observing  the  drama 
in  her  corner.  For  the  moment  she  did  not  wish  to  listen ; 
Alma's  appreciative  squeals  were  getting  strained  and  the 
big  man  was  a  bore.  Seen  sitting  in  profile  taking  his  tea 
he  reminded  her  of  Mr.  Staple-Craven ;  her  eye  caught 
and  recoiled  from  weak  patches,  touches  of  frowsy  softness 
here  and  there  about  the  shaggy  head.  Cut  off  from  the 
room  safe  in  the  extraordinary  preoccupation  of  the  young 
man  whose  eager  brooding  was  moving  now  towards  some 
imminent  communication  —  she  had  undisturbed  knowledge 
of  what  she  had  done.  Speech  and  action  had  launched 
her,  for  good  or  ill,  into  the  strange  tide  running  in  this 
house.  Its  cold  waters  beat  against  her  breast.  She  was  no 
longer  quite  herself.  There  was  something  in  it  that  quick- 
ened all  her  faculties,  challenged  all  the  strength  she 
possessed.     By  speech  and  action  she  had  accepted  some- 


143  THE    TUNNEL 

thing  she  neither  liked,  nor  approved  nor  understood ;  re- 
fusal would  have  left  its  secret  unplumbed,  standing  aside 
in  her  life,  tormenting  it.  The  sense  of  the  secret  in- 
toxicated her  .  .  .  perhaps  I  am  selling  my  soul  to  the 
devil.  But  she  was  glad  that  Mr.  Wilson  had  witnessed  her 
launching. 

"  You  are  magnificent  "  gasped  the  young  man  glaring 
at  the  wall.  "  I  mean  you  are  simply  magnificent."  He 
flashed  unconscious  eyes  at  her  —  he  had  no  consciousness 
of  the  cold  tide  with  its  curious  touch  of  evil ;  it  was  hand 
in  hand  with  him  and  his  simplicity  that  she  had  stepped 
down  into  the  water  —  and  hurried  on.  "An  angel  of 
dreams.  Dreams  .  .  .  you  know  —  I  say,"  he  spluttered 
incoherently,  "  I  must  tell  you."  His  working  preoccupied 
face  turned  to  face  hers  with  a  jerk  that  brought  part  of  the 
heavy  shelf  of  hair  across  one  of  his  eyes.  "  I've  been  doing 
the  best  work  this  week  I  ever  did  in  my  life ! "  Red 
flooded  the  whole  of  his  face  and  the  far-away  glare  of  his 
one  visible  eye  became  a  blaze  of  light,  near,  and  smiling  a 
guilty  delighted  smile.  He  was  demanding  her  approval, 
her  sympathy,  just  on  the  strength  of  her  being  there.  It 
was  the  moment  of  consenting  to  Alma  that  had  brought 
this.  However  it  had  come  she  would  have  been  unable 
to  withstand  it.  He  wanted  approval  and  sympathy ;  some- 
one here  had  some  time  or  other  shut  him  up ;  perhaps 
he  was  considered  second-rate,  perhaps  he  was  second-rate ; 
but  he  was  innocent  as  no  one  else  in  the  room  was  innocent. 
"  Oh,  I  am  glad  "  she  replied  swiftly.  Putting  the  cigarette 
on  the  edge  of  the  piano  he  seized  one  of  her  hands  and 
crushed  it  between  his  own.  His  face  perspired  and  there 
were  tears  in  his  eye.  "  Do  tell  me  about  it  "  she  said  with 
bold  uneasy  eagerness  hoping  he  would  drop  her  hand 
when  he  spoke.  "  It's  a  play  "  he  shouted  in  a  low  whisper, 
a  spray  of  saliva  springing  through  his  lips  "  a  play  —  it's 


THE   TUNNEL  143 

the  finest  stuff  I  ever  rout."  Were  all  these  people  either 
cockney  or  with  that  very  bland  anglican  cultured  way  of 
speaking  —  like  the  husband  and  the  man  with  the  Tudor 
mantelpiece  ? 

7 

"  I  can  of  course  admit  that  the  growth  of  corn  was,  at 
first,  accidental  and  unconscious,  and  that  even  after  the 
succession  of  processes  began  to  be  grasped  and  the  soil 
methodically  cultivated  the  success  of  the  crop  was  sup- 
posed to  depend  upon  the  propitiation  of  a  god.  I  can  see 
that  the  discovery  of  the  possibility  of  growing  food  would 
enormously  alter  the  savage's  conception  of  God,  by  intro- 
ducing a  new  set  of  attributes  into  his  consciousness  of  him ; 
but  in  defining  the  God  of  the  Christians  as  a  corn  deity 
you  and  Allen  are  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse." 

That  was  it,  that  was  it  —  that  was  right  somehow ;  there 
was  something  in  this  big  red- faced  man  that  was  not  in 
Mr.  Wilson ;  but  why  did  his  talk  sound  so  lame  and  dull, 
even  while  he  was  saving  God  —  and  Mr.  Wilson's,  while 
he  made  God  from  the  beginning  a  nothing  created  by  the 
fears  and  needs  of  man,  so  thrilling  and  convincing,  so 
painting  the  world  anew  ?  He  was  wrong  about  everything 
and  yet  while  he  talked  everything  changed  in  spite  of  your- 
self. 

The  earlier  part  of  the  afternoon  looked  a  bright  happy 
world  behind  the  desolation  of  this  conflict;  the  husband 
and  wife  and  the  young  men  and  Mrs.  Binkley  and  the 
bright  afternoon  light,  dear  far-off  friends  .  .  .  with- 
standing in  their  absence  the  chilly  light  of  Mr.  Wilson's 
talk.  Who  was  Mr.  Wilson?  But  he  was  so  certain  that 
men  had  created  God  .  .  .  life  in  that  thought  was  a  night- 
mare. Nothing  that  could  happen  could  make  it  anything 
but  a  nightmare  henceforth  ...  it  did  not  matter   what 


144  TH  E    TUNNEL 

happened,  and  yet  he  seemed  pleased,  amused  about  every- 
thing and  eager  to  go  on  and  "  do  "  things  and  get  things 
done.  .  .  .  His  belief  about  life  was  worse  than  agnosticism. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  it.  "  Mr.  G  "  was  an  invention  of 
man.  There  was  nothing  but  man ;  man,  coming  from  the 
ape,  some  men  a  little  cleverer  than  others,  men  had  dis- 
covered science,  science  was  the  only  enlightenment,  science 
would  put  everything  right ;  scientific  imagination,  scienti- 
fic invention.  Man.  Women  were  there,  cleverly  devised 
by  nature  to  ensnare  man  for  a  moment  and  produce  more 
men ;  to  bring  scientific  order  out  of  primeval  chaos ;  chaos 
was  decreasing  order  increasing ;  there  was  nothing  worth 
considering  before  the  coming  of  science ;  the  business  of 
the  writer  was  imagination,  not  romantic  imagination,  but 
realism,  fine  realism,  the  truth  about  "  the  savage  "  about 
all  the  past  and  present,  the  avoidance  of  cliche  .  .  .  what 
was  cliche?  .  .  . 

"  Well  my  dear  man  you've  got  the  Duke  of  Argyll  to 
keep  you  company  "  sighed  Mr.  Wilson  with  a  smothered 
giggle,  getting  to  his  feet. 

Miriam  went  from  the  sitting  room  she  had  entered  in 
another  age  with  the  bedroom  violets  pinned  against  her 
collarette,  stripped  and  cold  and  hungry  into  the  cold  of 
the  brightly-lit  little  dining  room.  The  gay  cold  dishes, 
the  bright  jellies  and  fruits,  the  brown  nuts,  the  pretty 
Italian  wine  in  thin  white  long-necked  decanters  .  .  . 
Chianti  .  .  .  Chianti  .  .  .  they  all  seemed  familiar  with 
the  wine  and  the  word ;  perhaps  it  was  a  familiar  wine 
at  the  Wilson  supper-parties;  they  spoke  of  it  sitting  at 
the  little  feast  amongst  the  sternness  of  nothing  but  small 
drawings  and  engravings  on  walls  that  shone  some  clear 
light  tone  against  the  few  pieces  of  unfamiliar  grey-brown 
furniture  like  people  clustering  round  a  fire.     But  it  was  a 


THE   TUNNEL  145 

feast  of  death;  terrible  because  of  their  not  knowing  that 
it  was  a  feast  of  death.     The  wife  of  the  cockatoo  had  come 
in  early  enough  to  hear  nearly  the  whole  of  the  conversa- 
tion and  had  sat  listening  to  it  with  a  quiet  fresh  talkative 
face  under  her  fresh  dark  hair;  the  large  deep  furrow  be- 
tween her  eyebrows  was  nothing  to  do  with  anything  here, 
it  was  permanent,  belonging  to  her  life.     She  had  brought 
her  life  in  with  her  and  kept  it  there,  the  freshness  and 
the  furrow ;  she  seemed  now,  at  supper  to  be  out  for  the 
evening,  to  enjoy  herself  —  at  the  Wilson's  .  .  .  coming  to 
the  Wilson's  .  .  .  for  a  jolly  evening,  just  as  anybody  would 
go  anywhere  for  a  jolly  evening.     She  did  not  know  what 
was  there,  what  it  all  meant.     Perhaps  because  of  the  two 
little  boys.     She,  with  two  little  unseen  boys  and  the  big 
house  so  near,  big  and  full  of  her  and  noise  and  things, 
and  her  freshness  and  the  furrow  of  her  thought  about  it 
prevented  anything  from  going  on;  the  dreadful  thing  had 
to  be  dropped  where  it  was,  leaving  the  big  man  who  had 
fought  to  pretend  to  be  interested  and  amused,  leaving  Mr. 
Wilson  with  the  last  word  and  his  quiet  smothered  giggle. 
Alma  tried  to  answer  Mrs.  Pinner's  loud  fresh  talking 
in  the  way  things  had  been  answered  earlier  in  the  after- 
noon before  the  departure  of  all  the  other  people.     Every- 
thing she  said  was  an  attempt  to  beat  things  up.     Every 
time  she  spoke  Miriam  was  conscious  of  something  in  the 
room  that  would  be  there  with  them  all  if  only  Alma  would 
leave  off  being  funny;  something  there  was  in  life   that 
Alma  had  never  yet  known,  something  that  belonged  to  an 
atmosphere  she  would  call  "  dull."     Mr.  Wilson  knew  that 
something  .  .  .  had  it  in  him  somewhere,  but  feared  it  and 
kept  it  out  by  trying  to  be  bigger,  by  trying  to  be  the  biggest 
thing  there  was.     Alma  went  on  and  on,  sometimes  uncom- 
fortably failing,  her  thin  voice  sounding  out  like  a  cork- 
screw in  a  cork  without  any  bottle  behind  it,  now  and  again 


146  THE    TUNNEL 

provoking  a  response  which  made  things  worse  because  it 
brought  to  the  table  the  shamed  sense  of  trying  to  keep 
something  going.  .  .  .  The  clever  excitements  would  not 
come  back.  Mrs.  Binkley  would  have  helped  her.  .  .  . 
Miriam  sat  helpless  and  miserable  between  her  admiration 
of  Alma's  efforts  and  her  longing  for  the  thing  Alma  kept 
out.  Her  discomfiture  at  Alma's  resentment  of  her  dul- 
ness  and  Alma's  longing  for  Mrs.  Binkley  was  made  endur- 
able by  her  anger  over  Alma's  obstructiveness.  Mr.  Pinner 
and  the  big  man  were  busily  feeding.  Mrs.  Pinner  laughed 
and  now  and  again  tried  to  imitate  Alma;  as  if  she  had 
learned  how  it  was  done  by  many  visits  to  the  Wilson's, 
and  then  forgot  and  talked  in  her  own  way,  forgetting  to 
try  to  say  good  things.  Alma  grew  smaller  as  supper  went 
on  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pinner  larger  and  larger.  Together 
they  were  too  strong  in  their  sense  of  some  other  life  and 
some  other  way  of  looking  at  things  to  give  the  Wilson 
way  a  clear  field.  Mr.  Wilson  began  monologues  in  favour- 
able intervals,  but  they  tailed  off  for  lack  of  nourishing 
response.  Miriam  listened  eagerly  and  suspiciously ;  lost 
in  admiration  and  a  silent,  mentally  wordless  opposition. 
She  felt  the  big  man  was  on  her  side  and  that  the  Pinners 
would  be  if  they  could  understand.  They  only  saw 
the  jokes  .  .  .  the  —  the,  higher  facetiousness  .  .  .  good 
phrase,  that  was  the  Chianti.  And  they  were  getting  used 
to  that;  perhaps  they  were  secretly  a  little  tired  of  it. 

8 

After  supper  Mr.  Pinner  sang  very  neatly  in  a  small  clear 
tenor  voice  an  English  translation  of  Es  war  em  Konig  im 
Thule.  Miriam  longed  for  the  German  words ;  Mr.  Pinner 
cancelled  even  the  small  remainder  of  the  German  senti- 
ment by  his  pronunciation  of  the  English  rendering;  "  there 
was  a  king  of  old  tame  "  he  declared  and  so  on  throughout 


THE   TUNNEL  147 

the  song.  Alma  followed  with  a  morsel  of  Chopin.  The 
performance  drove  Miriam  into  a  rage.  Mr.  Pinner  had 
murdered  his  German  ballad  innocently,  his  little  Oxford 
voice  and  his  false  vowels  did  not  conceal  the  pleasure  he 
took  in  singing  his  unimagined  little  song,  Alma  played  her 
piece  at  her  audience,  every  line  of  her  face  and  body  pro- 
claiming it  fine  music,  the  right  sort  of  music,  and  depre- 
cating all  the  compositions  that  were  not  "  music."  It  was 
clear  that  her  taste  had  become  cultivated,  that  she  knew 
now,  that  the  scales  had  fallen  from  her  eyes  as  they  had 
fallen  from  Miriam's  eyes  in  Germany;  but  the  result 
sent  Miriam  back  with  a  rush  to  cheap  music,  sentimental 
"  obvious  "  music,  shapely  waltzes,  the  demoralising  chro- 
matics of  Gounod,  the  demoralising  descriptive  passion 
pieces  of  Chauminade,  those  things  by  Liszt  whom  some- 
body had  called  a  charlatan  who  wrote  to  make  your  blood 
leap  and  your  feet  dance  and  made  your  blood  leap  and 
your  feet  dance  .  .  .  why  not?  .  .  . 

Her  mind  went  on  amazed  at  the  rushing  together  of 
her  ideas  on  music,  at  the  amount  of  certainty  she  had 
accumulated.  Any  of  these  things  she  declared  to  herself 
played,  really  played,  would  be  better  than  Alma's  Chopin. 
The  Wilsons  had  discovered  "  good  "  music,  as  so  many 
English  people  had,  but  they  were  all  wrong  about  music; 
nearly  all  English  people  were.  Only  in  England  would 
either  the  song  or  the  solo  have  been  possible.  The  song 
was  innocent,  the  solo  was  an  insult.  The  player's  air  of 
superiority  to  other  music  was  insufferable ;  her  way  of 
playing  out  bar  by  bar  of  the  rain  on  the  roof  as  if  she  were 
giving  a  lesson  was  a  piece  of  intellectual  snobbery.  Chopin 
she  had  never  met,  never  felt  or  glimpsed.  Chopin  was  a 
shape,  an  endless  delicate  stern  rhythm  as  stern  as  anything 
in  music ;  all  he  was  came  through  that,  could  come  only 
through  it  and  she  played  tricks  with  the  shape,  falsified 


i48  THE    TUNNEL 

all  the  values,  outdid  the  worst  trickery  of  the  music  she 
was  deprecating.  At  the  end  of  the  performance  which 
was  applauded  with  a  subdued  reverence,  Miriam  eased 
her  agony  by  humming  the  opening  phase  of  the  motive 
again  and  again  in  her  brain  and  very  nearly  aloud,  it  was 
such  a  perfect  rhythmic  drop.  For  long  she  was  haunted 
and  tortured  by  Alma's  horrible  holding  back  of  the  third 
note  for  emphasis  where  there  was  no  emphasis  ...  it  was 
like  .  .  .  finding  a  wart  at  the  dropping  end  of  a  fine  tendril, 
she  was  telling  herself  furiously  while  she  fended  off  Alma's 
cajoling  efforts  to  make  her  join  in  a  game  of  cards.  She 
felt  too  angry  and  too  suffering  —  what  was  this  wrong 
thing  about  music  in  all  English  people  —  even  if  she  had 
not  been  too  shy  to  exhibit  her  large  hands  and  her  stupidity 
at  cards.  So  they  were  going  to  play  cards,  actually  cards. 
The  room  felt  cold  to  her  in  her  long  suppressed  anger  and 
misery.  She  began  to  wish  the  Pinners  would  go.  Sitting 
by  the  fire  shivering  and  torpid  she  listened  to  Mrs.  Pinner's 
outcries  and  the  elaboration  between  the  rounds  of  jests 
that  she  felt  were  weekly  jests.  Sitting  there  dully  listening 
she  began  to  have  a  sort  of  insight  into  the  way  these  jests 
were  made,  it  was  a  thing  that  could  be  cultivated.  Her 
tired  brain  experimented.  Certain  things  she  heard  she 
knew  she  would  remember;  she  felt  she  would  repeat 
them  —  with  an  air  of  originality.  They  would  seem  very 
brilliant  in  any  of  her  circles  —  though  the  girls  did  that 
sort  of  thing  rather  well :  but  in  a  less  "  refined  "  way ; 
that  was  true!  This  was  the  sort  of  thing  the  girls  did; 
only  their  way  was  not  half  so  clever  ...  if  she  did,  every- 
one would  wonder  what  was  the  matter  with  her ;  and  she 
would  not  be  able  to  keep  it  up,  without  a  great  deal  of 
practice;  and  it  would  keep  out  something  else  .  .  .  but 
perhaps  for  some  people  there  was  something  in  it;  it  was 
their  way.     It  had  always  been  Alma's  way  a  little.     Only 


THE    TUNNEL  149 

now  she  did  it  better.  Perhaps  ...  it  was  like  Chopin's 
shape.  .  .  .  They  do  not  know  how  angry  I  have  been  .  .  . 
they  are  quite  amiable.  I  am  simply  horrid  .  .  .  wanting 
Alma  to  know  I  know  she's  wrong  quite  as  much  as  I  care 
for  Chopin;  perhaps  more  ...  no;  if  anybody  had  played, 
I  should  be  happy;  perfectly  happy  .  .  .  what  does  that 
mean  .  .  .  because  real  musicians  are  not  at  all  nice  people 
..."  a  queer  soft  lot."  But  why  are  the  English  so  awful 
about  music?  They  are  poets.  Why  are  they  not  musi- 
cians? I  hope  I  shall  never  hear  Alma  play  Beethoven.  As 
long  as  she  plays  Chopin  like  that  I  shall  never  like  her.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  English  people  ought  never  to  play,  only  to  listen 
to  music.  They  are  not  innocent  enough  to  play.  They 
cannot  forget  themselves. 

At  ten  o'clock  they  trooped  into  the  kitchen.  Miriam, 
half  asleep  and  starving  for  food,  eagerly  ate  large  biscuits 
too  hungry  to  care  much  for  Alma's  continued  resentment 
of  her  failure  to  join  the  card  party  and  her  unconcealed 
contempt  of  her  sudden  return  to  animation  at  the  prospect 
of  nourishment.     She  had  never  felt  so  hungry. 

9 

Going  at  last  to  her  room  Miriam  found  its  gleaming 
freshness  warm  and  firelit.  Warm  fresh  deeps  of  softly 
coloured  room  that  were  complete  before  she  came  in  with 
her  candle.  She  stood  a  moment  imagining  the  emptiness. 
The  April  night  air  was  streaming  gently  in  from  meadows. 
Going  across  to  the  window  she  hesitated  near  the  flowered 
curtain.  It  stirred  gently ;  but  not  in  that  way  as  if  moved 
by  ghostly  fingers.  The  meadows  here  were  different. 
They  might  grow  the  same  again.  But  woods  and  meadows 
were  alwavs  there,  away  from  London.  One  could  go  to 
them.  They  were  going  on  all  the  time.  All  the  time  in 
London  spring  and  summer  and  autumn  were  passing  un- 


150  THE   TUNNEL 

seen.  But  this  was  not  the  time.  They  were  different  here. 
She  pulled  a  deep  wicker  chair  close  up  to  the  exciting  white 
ash-sprinkled  hearth.  The  evening  she  had  left  in  the 
flames  downstairs  was  going  on  up  here.  To-morrow, 
to-day,  in  a  few  hours  she  would  be  sitting  with  them 
again,  facing  flames ;  no  one  else  there.  She  sat  with 
her  eyes  on  the  flames.  A  clock  struck  two.  .  .  .  I've  got 
to  them  at  last,  the  people  I  ought  to  be  with.  The  books 
in  the  corner  showed  their  bindings  and  opened  their  pages 
here  and  there.  They  made  a  little  sick  patch  on  her  heart. 
They  approved  of  them.  Other  people  approved  of  things. 
Nothing  had  been  done  yet  that  anybody  could  approve 
of  .  .  .  the  something  village  of  Grandpre  .  .  .  und  dann 
sagte  darauf,  die  gute  verniinftige  Hausfrau.  ...  It  all 
floated  in  the  air.  They  would  see  it  if  somebody  showed 
it.  They  would  be  angry  and  amused  if  anybody  tried 
to  show  it.  It  was  wrong  in  some  way  to  try  and  show  the 
things  you  were  looking  at.  Keep  quiet  about  them. 
Then  somebody  else  expressed  them ;  and  those  other  peo- 
ple turned  to  you  and  demanded  your  admiration  —  and 
wondered  why  you  were  furious.  It's  too  long  to  wait,  until 
the  things  come  up  of  themselves.  You  must  attend  to 
them.  .  .  . 

How  the  fragrance  of  the  cigarette  stood  out  upon  the 
fresh  warm  air  .  .  .  that  was  perique,  that  curious  strong 
flavour.  They  were  very  strong,  he  had  said  so ;  but 
downstairs,  talking  like  that  they  had  had  no  particular 
flavour,  just  cigarettes,  bringing  the  cigarette  mood  .  .  . 
no  wonder  he  had  been  surprised,  really  surprised,  at  her 
smoking  so  many  .  .  .  but  then  he  had  been  surprised  at 
her  eating  a  hard  apple  at  midnight  .  .  .  the  sitting  room 
had  suddenly  looked  familiar  going  into  it  alone  while 
they  were  seeing  out  the  Pinners  and  the  big  man.  Strange 
unknown  voices  that  perhaps   she  would   not  hear  again, 


THE   TUNNEL  151 

going  out  into  the  night  .  .  .  their  voices  jesting  the  last 
jests  as  the  guests  went  down  the  garden,  sounding  in  the 
hall,  familiar  and  homely,  well  known  to  her,  presently 
coming  back  into  the  sitting  room ;  the  fire  burning  brightly 
like  any  other  fire,  the  exciting  deep  pinkness  of  the  shaded 
lamplight  like  nothing  else  in  the  world.  Alma  knew  it, 
rushing  in  .  .  .  whirling  about  with  Alma  in  that  room 
with  that  afternoon  left  in  it;  the  sounds  of  bolting  and 
locking  coming  in  from  the  hall. 

10 

..."  You  looked  extraordinarily  pretty.  .  .  ." 

"  You  have  come  through  it  all  remarkably  well  "... 
remarkable  had  a  k  in  it  in  English,  and  German,  merk- 
wiirdig,  and  perhaps  in  Scandinavian  languages ;  but  not 
in  other  languages ;  it  was  one  of  the  things  that  separated 
England  from  the  south  .  .  .  remarkable  .  .  .  hard  and 
chilly. 

"  You  know  you're  awfully  good  stuff.  You've  had  an 
extraordinary  variety  of  experience ;  you've  got  your  free- 
dom ;  you  ought  to  write." 

"  That  is  what  a  palmist  told  me  at  Newlands.  It  was 
at  a  big  afternoon  '  at  home  '  ;  there  was  a  palmist  in  a 
little  dark  room  sitting  near  a  lamp ;  she  looked  at  nothing 
but  your  hands ;  she  kept  saying  whatever  you  do,  write. 
If  you  haven't  written  yet,  write,  if  you  don't  succeed  go 
on  writing." 

"  Just  so,  have  you  written  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  she  also  told  me  my  self-confidence  had  been 
broken ;  that  I  used  to  be  self-confident  and  was  so  no 
longer.     It's   true." 

"Have  you  written  anything?" 

"  I  once  sent  in  a  thing  to  Home  Notes.  They  sent  it 
back  but  asked  me  to  write  something  else  and  suggested 
a  few  things." 


i52  THE   TUNNEL 

"If  they  had  taken  your  stuff  you  would  have  gone  on 
and  learnt  to  turn  out  stuff  bad  enough  for  Home  Notes 
and  gone  on  doing  it  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"  But  then  an  artist,  a  woman  who  had  a  studio  in  Bond 
Street  and  knew  Leighton,  saw  some  things  I  had  tried 
to  paint  and  said  I  ought  to  make  any  sacrifice  to  learn 
painting,  and  a  musician  said  the  same  about  music." 

"  You  could  work  in  writing  quite  well  with  your  present 
work." 

.  .  .  "Pieces  of  short  prose;  anything;  a  description  of 
an  old  woman  sitting  in  an  omnibus  .  .  .  anything.  There's 
plenty  of  room  for  good  work.  There's  the  Academy  al- 
ways ready  to  consider  well-written  pieces  of  short  prose. 
Write  something  and  send  it  to  me." 

Nearing  London  shivering  and  exhausted  she  recalled 
Sunday  morning  and  the  strangeness  of  it  being  just  as  it 
had  promised  to  be.  Happy  waking  with  a  clear  refreshed 
brain  in  a  tired  drowsy  body,  like  the  feeling  after  a  dance ; 
making  the  next  morning  part  of  the  dance,  your  mind 
full  of  pictures  and  thoughts  and  the  evening  coming  up 
again  and  again,  one  great  clear  picture  in  the  foreground 
of  your  mind.  The  evening  in  the  room  as  you  sat  propped 
on  your  pillows  drinking  the  clear  pale  curiously  refreshing 
tea  left  by  the  maid  on  a  little  wooden  tray  by  your  bed- 
side ;  its  fragrance  drew  you  to  sip  at  once,  without  adding 
milk  and  sugar.  It  was  delicious ;  it  steamed  aromatically 
up  your  nostrils  and  went  straight  to  your  brain  ;  potent 
without  being  bitter.  Perhaps  it  was  "China"  tea;  it 
must  be.  The  two  biscuits  on  the  little  plate  disappeared 
rapidly,  and  she  poured  in  milk  and  added  much  sugar 
to  her  remaining  tea  to  appease  her  hunger.  The  evening 
stayed  during  her  deliberately  perfunctory  toilet ;  she  wanted 
only  to  be  down.  It  began  again  unbroken  with  the  first 
cigarette  after  breakfast,  when  a  nimble  remark  thrown  out 


THE   TUNNEL  153 

from  the  excited  gravity  of  her  happiness  made  Mr.  Wil- 
son laugh.  She  was  learning  how  to  do  it.  It  stayed  on 
through  the  day,  adding  the  day  to  itself  in  a  chain,  a 
morning  of  talk,  a  visit  to  Mr.  Wilson's  study  —  the  curious 
glimpses  of  pinewood  from  the  windows ;  pinewood  look- 
ing strange  and  far-away  —  there  were  people  in  Wey- 
bridge  to  whom  those  woods  were  real  woods  where  they 
walked  and  perhaps  had  the  thoughts  that  woods  bring; 
here  they  were  like  woods  in  a  picture  book;  not  real, 
just  a  curious  painted  background  for  Mr.  Wilson's  talk 
...  all  those  books  in  fifty  years'  time  burnt  up  by  the 
air;  he  did  not  seem  to  think  it  an  awful  idea  .  .  .  you  can 
do  anything  with  English  .  .  .  and  then  the  names  of 
authors  who  had  done  some  of  these  things  with  English 
.  .  .  making  it  sing  and  dance  and  march,  making  it  like 
granite  or  like  film  and  foam.  Other  languages  were  more 
simple  and  single  in  texture;  less  flexible.  .  .  .  Gazing 
out  at  the  exciting  silent  pines  —  so  dark  and  still,  waiting, 
not  knowing  about  the  wonders  of  English  —  Miriam 
recalled  her  impressions  of  those  of  the  authors  she  knew. 
It  was  true  that  those  were  their  effects  and  the  great 
differences  between  them.  How  did  he  come  to  know  all 
about  it  and  to  put  it  into  words?  Did  the  authors  know 
when  they  did  it?  She  passionately  hoped  not.  If  they 
did,  it  was  a  trick  and  spoilt  books.  Rows  and  rows  of 
"  fine "  books ;  nothing  but  men  sitting  in  studies  doing 
something  cleverly,  being  very  important,  "  men  of  let- 
ters " ;  and  looking  out  for  approbation.  If  writing  meant 
that,  it  was  not  worth  doing.  English  a  great  flexible  lan- 
guage ;  more  than  any  other  in  the  world.  But  German  was 
the  same?  Only  the  inflections  filled  the  sentences  up  with 
bits.  English  was  flexible  and  beautiful.  Funny.  For- 
eigners did  not  think  so.  Many  English  people  thought 
foreign  literature  the  best.     Perhaps  Mr.  Wilson  did  not 


154  THE   TUNNEL 

know  much  foreign  literature.  But  he  wanted  to ;  or  he 
would  not  have  those  translations  of  Ibsen  and  Bjornsen. 
German  poetry  marched  and  sang  and  did  all  sorts  of  things. 
Anyhow  it  was  wonderful  about  English  —  but  if  books 
were  written  like  that,  sitting  down  and  doing  it  cleverly 
and  knowing  just  what  you  were  doing  and  just  how  some- 
body else  had  done  it,  there  was  something  wrong,  some 
mannish  cleverness  that  was  only  half  right.  To  write 
books,  knowing  all  about  style  would  be  to  become  like  a 
man.  Women  who  wrote  books  and  learned  these  things 
would  be  absurd  and  would  make  men  absurd.  There  was 
something  wrong.  It  was  in  all  those  books  upstairs. 
"  Good  stuff  "  was  wrong,  a  clever  trick,  not  worth  doing. 
And  yet  everybody  seemed  to  want  to  write. 

The  rest  of  the  day  —  secret  and  wonderful.  Sitting 
about,  taken  for  one  of  the  Wilson  kind  of  people,  someone 
who  was  writing  or  going  to  write,  by  the  two  Scotch  pro- 
fessors ;  sitting  about  listening  to  their  quiet  easy  eager  un- 
concerned talk,  seeing  them  "  all  round  "  as  Mr.  Wilson  saw 
them,  the  limits  of  professorship  and  teaching,  the  silly 
net  and  trick  of  examinations,  their  simplicity  and  their 
helplessness ;  playing  the  lovely  accompaniment  like  quiet 
waves,  of  Schubert's  Ave  Maria,  the  sudden,  jolly,  senti- 
mental voice  of  Professor  Evvings,  his  nice  attentions  .  .  . 
if  it  had  been  Wimpole  Street  or  anywhere  in  society  he 
would  not  have  seen  me.  .  .  . 

It  would  be  wrong  to  try  and  write  just  because  Mr. 
Wilson  had  said  one  ought.  .  .  .  The  reasons  he  had  given 
for  writing  were  the  wrong  ones  .  .  .  but  it  would  be 
impossible  to  go  down  again  without  doing  some  writing. 
.  .  .  Impossible  not  to  go  down  again.  .  .  .  They  knew  one 
was  "  different " ;  and  liked  it  and  thought  it  a  good  thing;  a 
sort  of  distinction.  No  one  had  thought  that  before.  It 
made  them  a  home  and  a  refuge.     The  only  refuge  there 


THE   TUNNEL  155 

was  except  being  by  oneself  .  .  .  only  their  kind  of  dif- 
ference was  not  the  same.  They  thought  nearly  everyone 
"  futile  "  and  "  dull  " —  everyone  who  did  not  see  things 
in  their  way  was  that.  Presently  they  would  find  that 
one  was  not  different  in  the  same  way.  He  had  spoken 
of  people  who  grow  "  dull "  as  you  get  to  know  them. 
Awful  .  .  .  perhaps  already,  he  meant 

"  It's  all  very  well  .  .  .  people  read  Matthew  Arnold's 
simple  profundities;  er — simple  profundities;  and  learn 
his  little  trick;  and  go  about  —  hcna,  hcna, —  arm  in  arm 
with  this  swell  .  .  .  hcna  .  .  .  puffing  with  illumination. 
All  about  nothing.  It's  all,  my  dear  Miss  Henderson, 
about  absolutely  nothing." 

The  train  stopped.  Better  not  to  go  down  again.  There 
was  something  all  wrong  in  it.  Wrong  about  everything. 
The  Pinners  and  the  big  man  were  right  .  .  .  but  there 
was  something  dreadful  in  them,  the  something  that  is  in 
all  simple  right  sort  of  people,  who  just  go  on,  never  think- 
ing about  anything.  Were  they  good  and  right?  It  did 
not  enter  their  heads  to  think  that  they  were  wrong  in 
associating  with  him.  .  .  .  Here  in  London  it  seemed 
wrong  .  .  .  she  hurried  wearily  with  aching  head  up  the 
long  platform.  The  Wimpole  Street  people  would  cer- 
tainly think  it  wrong;  if  they  knew  about  the  marriage. 
They  knew  he  was  a  coming  great  man ;  the  great  new 
"  critic  " ;  a  new  kind  of  critic  .  .  .  they  knew  everybody 
was  beginning  to  talk  about  him.  But  if  they  knew  they 
would  not  approve.  They  would  never  understand  his 
way  of  seeing  things.  Impossible  to  convey  anything  to 
them  of  what  the  visit  had  been. 


156  THE   TUNNEL 

ii 

The  hall  clock  said  half-past  nine.  The  hall  and  the 
large  rooms  had  shrunk.  Everything  looked  shabby  and 
homely.  The  house  was  perfectly  quiet.  Passing  quietly 
and  quickly  into  her  room  she  found  the  table  empty. 
The  door  into  the  den  was  shut  and  no  sound  came  from 
behind  it.  No  one  but  James  had  seen  her.  The  holiday 
was  still  there.  Perhaps  there  would  be  time  to  take  hold 
in  the  new  way  before  anyone  discovered  her  and  made 
demands.  Perhaps  they  were  all  three  wanting  her  at  this 
moment.  But  the  house  was  so  still,  there  was  nothing 
urgent.  Perhaps  she  would  never  feel  nervous  at  Wim- 
pole  Street  again.  It  was  really  all  so  easy.  There  was 
nothing  she  could  not  manage  if  only  she  could  get  a  fair 
start  and  get  everything  in  order  and  up  to  date.  Her 
mind  tried  to  encircle  the  book-keeping.  There  must  be  a 
plan  for  it  all ;  so  much  work  on  the  accounts  to  keep  the 
whole  ledger-full  sent  out  to  date,  so  much  on  the  address 
books,  and  so  much  on  the  monthly  cash  books  —  a  little 
of  all  these  things  every  day  in  addition  to  the  day's  work, 
whatever  happened ;  that  would  do  it.  Then  there  would 
be  no  muddle  and  nothing  to  worry  about  and  perhaps  time 
to  write.  They  must  be  told  that  she  would  use  any  spare 
time  there  was  on  other  things.  .  .  .  They  would  be  quite 
ready  for  that  provided  the  books  were  always  up  to  date 
and  the  surgeries  always  in  order.  That  is  what  a  Wilson 
would  have  done  from  the  first. 

12 

"  Mr.  Grove  to  see  you,  miss." 

"  Mr.  Grove?" 

"  Yes  miss :  a  dark  gentleman." 

Miriam  rose  from  her  chair.     James  had  gone  after  a 


THE   TUNNEL  157 

moment  of  sympathetic  waiting,  back  down  the  basement 
stairs  to  her  dinner.  Miriam  felt  herself  very  tall  and 
slender  —  set  apart  and  surrounded ;  healed  of  all  fighting 
and  effort.  She  went  quicky  through  the  hall  thinking  of 
nothing;  herself,  walking  down  Harriett's  garden  path. 
At  the  door  of  the  waiting-room  she  hesitated.  Mr.  Grove 
was  the  other  side  of  the  door,  waiting  for  her  to  come  in. 
She  opened  the  door  with  a  flourish  and  advanced  with 
stiffly  outstretched  hand.  Before  she  said  "  teeth  ?  "  in  a 
cheerful  breezy  professional  tone  that  exploded  into  the 
past  and  scattered  it  she  saw  the  pained  anxiousness  of  his 
face  and  the  flush  that  had  risen  under  his  dark  skin. 

"  No  "  he  said  recoiling  swiftly  from  his  limp  handshake 
and  sitting  abruptly  down  on  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
risen.  Miriam  watched  him  go  helplessly  on  to  say  in  stiff 
resentfulness  what  he  had  come  to  say  while  she  stood 
apologetically  at  his  chair  side. 

"  I  meant  to  write  to  you  —  two  or  three  times." 

"  Oh  why  didn't  you  ?  "  she  responded  emphatically.  .  .  . 
Why  can't  I  be  quiet  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say?  He 
must  have  wanted  to  see  me  dreadfully  to  come  here  like 
this. 

His  eyes  were  fixed  blindly  upon  the  far-off  window. 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  to  very  much.  How  do  you  like  your 
life  here?  "  He  was  flushing  again.  His  skin  still  had  that 
shiny  film  over  it,  so  unlike  the  clear  snaky  brilliance  of  the 
eyes.  They  were  dreadful  and  all  the  rest  flappy  and 
floppy  and  somehow  feverish. 

"  Oh  —  I  like  it  immensely." 

"  That  is  a  very  good  thing." 

"  Do  you  like  your  life?  " 

He  drew  in  his  lower  lip  on  an  indrawn  breath  and  held 
it  with  his  teeth.  His  eyes  were  thinking  busily  under  a 
slight  frown. 


I58  THE   TUNNEL 

"  That  is  one  of  the  tilings  I  wished  to  discuss  with  you." 

"  Oh  do  discuss  it  with  me,"  cried  Miriam. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  are  getting  on  here  so  well  "  he 
murmured  thoughtfully,  gazing  through  the  window,  to 
and  fro  as  if  scanning  the  opposite  house-fronts. 

"  Oh,  I  like  it  immensely  "  said  Miriam  after  a  silence. 
Her  head  was  beginning  to  ache.  He  sat  quite  still,  scan- 
ning to  and  fro,  his  lip  recaptured  under  his  teeth. 

"  They  are  such  nice  people.  I  like  it  for  so  many 
things." 

He  looked  absently  round  at  her. 

"  M-yes.     On  several  occasions  I  thought  of  writing  to 

you." 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam  sitting  down  opposite  to  him. 

He  shifted  a  little  in  his  chair  to  keep  his  way  clear  to 
the  window. 

For  a  few  moments  they  sat  silent;  then  he  suddenly 
took  out  his  watch  and  stood  up. 

Miriam  rose.     "Have  you  seen  the  Ducayne's  lately?' 
she  asked  hurriedly,  moving  nervously  towards  the  door. 
Murmuring  an  indistinct  response  he  led  the  way  to  the 
door  and  held  it  open  for  her. 

James  was  coming  forward  with  a  patient.  They  stood 
aside  for  the  patient  to  pass  in,  James  waiting  to  escort  Mr. 
Grove  to  the  front  door.  They  shook  hands  limply  and 
silently.  Miriam  stood  watching  his  narrow  loosely  knit 
clerical  back  as  he  plunged  along  through  the  hall  and  out. 
She  turned  as  James  turned  from  the  door.  .  .  .  What 
it  must  have  cost  him  to  break  in  here  and  ask  for  me 
.  .  .  how  silly  and  how  rude  I  was.  ...  I  can't  believe 
he's  been ;  it's  like  a  dream.  He's  seen  me  in  the  new  life 
changed  .  .  .  and  I'm  not  really  changed. 


CHAPTER   VII 


WHY  must  I  always  think  of  her  in  this  place.  ...  It 
is  always  worst  just  along  here.  .  .  .  Why  do  I 
always  forget  there's  this  piece  .  .  .  always  be  hurrying 
along  seeing  nothing  and  then  suddenly  Teetgen's  Teas 
and  this  row  of  shops.  I  can't  bear  it.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is.  It's  always  the  same.  I  always  feel  the  same.  It  is 
sending  me  mad.  One  day  it  will  be  worse.  If  it  gets  any 
worse  I  shall  be  mad.  Just  here.  Certainly.  Something 
is  wearing  out  in  me.  I  am  meant  to  go  mad.  If  not  I 
should  not  always  be  coming  along  this  piece  without  know- 
ing it,  whichever  street  I  take.  Other  people  would  know 
the  streets  apart.  I  don't  know  where  this  bit  is  or  how 
I  get  to  it.  I  come  every  day  because  I  am  meant  to  go 
mad  here.  Something  that  knows  brings  me  here  and  is 
making  me  go  mad  because  I  am  myself  and  nothing 
changes  me. 


iS9 


CHAPTER    VII  I 


THE  morning  went  on.  It  seemed  as  though  there  was 
to  be  no  opportunity  of  telling  Mr.  Hancock  until 
lunch  had  changed  the  feeling  of  the  day.  He  knew  there 
was  something.  Turning  to  select  an  instrument  from  a 
drawer  she  was  at  work  upon  he  had  caught  sight  of  her 
mirth  and  smiled  his  amusement  and  anticipation  into  the 
drawer  before  turning  gravely  back  to  the  chair.  Perhaps 
that  was  enough,  the  best,  like  a  moment  of  amusement  you 
share  with  a  stranger  and  never  forget.  Perhaps  by  the 
time  she  was  able  to  tell  him  he  would  be  disappointed. 
No.  It  was  too  perfect.  Just  the  sort  of  thing  that  amused 
him. 

He  had  one  long  sitting  after  another,  the  time  given 
to  one  patient  overlapping  the  appointment  with  the  next 
so  that  her  clearings  and  cleansings  were  down  with  a  patient 
in  the  chair,  noiselessly  and  slowly,  keeping  her  in  the  room, 
making  to-day  seem  like  a  continuation  of  yesterday  after- 
noon. Yesterday  shed  its  radiance.  The  shared  mirth 
made  a  glowing  background  to  her  toil.  The  duties  accu- 
mulating downstairs  made  her  continued  presence  in  the 
surgery  a  sort  of  truancy.  She  felt  more  strongly  than 
ever  the  sense  of  her  usefulness  to  him.  She  had  never  so 
far  helped  him  so  deftly  and  easily,  being  everywhere  and 
nowhere,  foreseeing  his  needs  without  impeding  his  move- 
ments, doing  everything  without  reminding  the  patient  that 
there  was  a  third  person  in  the  room.  She  followed  sym- 
pathetically the  long  slow  processes  of  excavation  and  root 

160 


THE   TUNNEL  161 

treatment,  the  delicate  shaping  and  undercutting  of  the  walls 
of  cavities,  the  adjustment  and  retention  of  the  many  ap- 
pliances for  the  exclusion  of  moisture,  the  insertions  of  the 
amalgams  and  pastes  whose  pounding  and  mixing  made  a 
recurrent  crisis  in  her  morning.  She  wished  again  and 
again  that  the  dentally  ignorant  dentally  ironic  world  could 
see  the  operator  at  his  best;  in  his  moments  of  quiet  intense 
concentration  on  giving  his  best  to  his  patients. 


The  patients  suffering  the  four  long  sittings  were  all  of 
the  best  group,  leisurely  and  untroubled  as  to  the  mounting 
up  of  guineas  and  three  of  them  intelligently  appreciative 
of  what  was  being  done.  They  knew  all  about  the  "  status  " 
of  modern  dentistry  and  the  importance  of  teeth.  They 
were  all  clear  serene  tranquil  cheerful  people  who  probably 
hardly  ever  went  to  a  doctor.  They  would  rate  oculists 
and  dentists  on  a  level  with  doctors  and  two  of  them  at 
least  would  rate  Mr.  Hancock  on  a  level  with  anybody.  .  .  . 
Tomorrow  would  be  quite  different,  a  rush  of  gas  cases, 
that  man  who  was  sick  if  an  instrument  touched  the  back 
of  his  tongue;  Mrs.  Wolff,  disputing  fees,  the  deaf-mute, 
the  grubby  little  man  on  a  newspaper  ...  he  ought  to 
have  no  patients  but  these  intelligent  ones  and  really  nerv- 
ous and  delicate  people  and  children. 

3 

"  I  sometimes  wish  I'd  stuck  to  medicine." 

"Why?" 

"  Well  —  I  don't  know.  You  know  they  get  a  good  deal 
more  all  round  out  of  their  profession  than  a  dentist  does. 
It  absorbs  them  more.  ...  I  don't  say  it  ought  not  to 
be  the  same  with  dentistry.  But  it  isn't.  I  don't  know  a 
dentist  who  wants  to  go  on  talking  shop  until  the  small 


1 62  THE    TUNNEL 

hours.  I'm  quite  sure  /  don't.  Now  look  at  Randle. 
He  was  dining  here  last  night.  So  was  Bentley.  We 
separated  at  about  midnight ;  and  Randle  told  me  this 
morning  that  he  and  Bentley  walked  up  and  down  Harley 
Street  telling  each  other  stories,  until  two  o'clock." 

"  That  simply  means  they  talk  about  their  patients." 

"  Well  —  yes.  They  discuss  their  cases  from  every 
point  of  view.  They  get  more  human  interest  out  of  their 
work." 

"Of  course  everybody  knows  that  medical  students  and 
doctors  are  famous  for  stories.  But  it  doesn't  really  mean 
they  know  anything  about  people.  I  don't  believe  they  do. 
I  think  the  dentist  has  quite  as  much  opportunity  of  study- 
ing human  nature.  Going  through  dentistry  is  like  dying. 
You  must  know  almost  everything  about  a  patient  who  has 
had  much  done,  or  even  a  little  '- " 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is  their  profession  is  a  hobby  to 
them  as  well  as  a  profession.  That's  the  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter. Now  I  think  a  man  who  can  make  a  hobby  of  his 
profession  is  a  very  fortunate  man." 

4 

How  surprised  the  four  friendly  wealthy  patients,  especi- 
ally the  white-haired  old  aristocrat  who  was  always  pressing 
invitations  upon  him  would  have  been,  ignoring  or  treating 
her  with  the  kindly  consideration  due  to  people  of  her 
station,  if  they  could  have  seen  inside  his  house  yesterday 
and  beheld  her  ensconced  in  the  most  comfortable  chair 
in  his  drawing-room  .  .  .  talking  to  Miss   Szigmondy. 

5 

Each  time  she  came  downstairs  she  sat  urgently  down 
to  the  most  pressing  of  her  clerical  duties  and  presently 
found  her  mind  ranging  amongst  thoughts   whose  begin- 


THE   TUNNEL  163 

nings  she  could  not  remember.  She  felt  equal  to  anything. 
Every  prospect  was  open  to  her.  Simple  solutions  to 
problems  that  commonly  went  unanswered  round  and  round 
in  her  head  presented  themselves  in  flashes.  At  intervals 
she  worked  with  a  swiftness  and  ease  that  astonished  her, 
making  no  mistakes,  devising  small  changes  and  adjust- 
ments that  would  make  for  the  smoother  working  of  the 
practice,  dashing  off  notes  to  friends  in  easy  expressive 
phrases  that  came  without  thought. 


Rushing  up  towards  lunch  time  in  answer  to  the  bell 
she  found  Mr.  Hancock  alone.  He  turned  from  the  wash- 
stand  and  stood  carefully  drying  his  hands.  "  Are  they 
showing  up  ? "  he  murmured  and  seeing  her,  smiled  his 
sense  of  her  eagerness  to  communicate  and  approached  a 
few  steps  waiting  and  smiling  with  the  whole  of  his  face 
exactly  as  he  would  smile  when  the  communication  was 
made.  There  was  really  no  need  to  tell.  Miriam  glanced 
back  for  an  incoming  patient.  "  Miss  Szigwowdy "  she 
began  in  a  voice  deep  with  laughter. 

He  laughed  at  once,  with  a  little  backward  throw  of  his 
head  just  as  the  patient  came  in.  Miriam  glided  swiftly 
into  her  corner. 

7 

At  tea-time  she  found  herself  happily  exhausted,  sitting 
alone  in  the  den  waiting  for  the  sound  of  footsteps.  For 
the  first  time  the  gas-stove  was  unlit.  The  rows  of  asbes- 
tos balls  stood  white  and  bare.  But  a  flood  of  sunlight 
came  through  the  western  panes  of  the  newly  washed  sky- 
light. The  little  low  tea-table  with  its  fresh  uncrumpled 
low  hanging  white  cover  and  compact  cluster  of  delicate 
china  stood  in  full  sunshine  amidst  the  comfortable  winter 


1 64  THE   TUNNEL 

shabbiness.  The  decorative  confusion  on  the  walls  shone 
richly  out  in  the  new  bright  light.  It  needed  only  to  have 
all  the  skylights  open  the  blue  of  the  sky  visible,  the  thin 
spring  air  coming  in,  the  fire  alight  making  a  summery  glow, 
to  be  perfect ;  like  spring  tea-time  in  a  newly  visited  house. 
The  Wilsons  sitting-room  would  be  in  an  open  blaze  of 
shallow  spring  sunshine.  She  saw  it  going  on  day  by  day 
towards  the  rich  light  of  summer  .  .  jealously.  One 
ought  to  be  there  every  day.  So  much  life  would  have 
passed  through  the  room.  Every  day  last  week  has  been 
full  of  it,  everything  changed  by  it,  and  now,  since  yesterday 
it  seemed  months  ago.  It  seemed  too  late  to  begin  going 
down  again.  One  thing  blots  out  another.  You  cannot 
have  more  than  one  thing  intensely.  Quite  soon  it  would 
be  as  if  she  had  never  been  down;  except  in  moments 
now  and  again,  when  something  recalled  the  challenge  of 
their  point  of  view.  They  would  not  want  her  to  go  down 
again  unless  she  had  begun  to  be  different.  Until  yesterday 
she  might  have  begun.  But  yesterday  afternoon  they  had 
been  forgotten  so  completely,  and  waking  up  from  yester- 
day she  no  longer  wanted  to  begin  their  way  of  being 
different.  But  other  people  had  already  begun  to  iden- 
tify her  with  them.  That  came  of  talking.  If  she  had 
said  nothing,  nothing  would  have  been  changed ; 
either  at  Wimpole  Street  or  with  the  girls.  Did  they 
really  like  reading  "  The  Evolution  of  the  Idea  of  God  " 
or  were  they  only  pretending?  Sewing  all  the  time, 
busily,  like  wives,  instead  of  smoking  and  listening  and 
thinking. 

Which  was  the  stronger?  The  interest  of  getting  the 
whole  picture  there,  and  struggling  with  Mr.  Wilson's  de- 
ductions or  the  interest  of  getting  the  girls  to  grasp  and 


THE   TUNNEL  165 

admire    his    conclusions    even    while   she    herself    refused 
them.  .  .  . 

"  Why  can't  I  keep  quiet  about  the  things  that  happen  ? 
It's  all  me,  my  conceit  and  my  way  of  rushing  into  things." 
.  .  .  But  other  people  were  the  same  in  a  way.  Only  there 
was  something  real  in  their  way.  They  believed  in  the 
things  they  rushed  into.  "  Miss  Henderson  knows  the 
great  critic,  intimately."  He  had  thought  that  would  im- 
press Miss  Szigmondy.  It  did.  For  a  moment  she  had 
stopped  talking  and  looked  surprised.  There  was  time  to 
disclaim,  to  tell  them  they  were  being  impressed  in  the 
wrong  way ;  to  tell  them  something,  to  explain  in  some  way. 
The  moment  had  passed,  full  of  terrible  far-off  trouble, 
"  decisive." 

There  is  always  a  fraction  of  a  second  when  you  know 
what  you  are  doing.  Miss  Szigmondy  would  have  gone 
on  talking  about  bicycling  until  Mr.  Hancock  came  back. 
There  was  no  need  to  say  suddenly,  without  thinking  about 
it  "  I  am  dying  to  learn."  Really  that  sudden  remark  was 
the  result  of  having  failed  to  speak  when  they  were  all 
talking  about  Mr.  Wilson.  If,  then,  one  had  suddenly 
said  "  I  am  dying  to  learn  bicycling "  or  anything  they 
would  have  known  something  of  the  truth  about  Mr. 
Wilson.  It  was  the  worrying  thought  of  him,  still  there, 
that  made  one  say,  without  thinking,  "  I  am  dying  to 
learn."  It  was  too  late.  It  linked  up  with  the  silence  about 
Mr.  Wilson  and  left  one  being  a  person  who  knew  and 
altogether  approved  of  Mr.  Wilson  and  wanted  to  learn 
bicycling.  Altogether  wrong.  "  You  know  —  I  don't  ap- 
prove of  Mr.  Wilson ;  and  you  might  not  if  you  heard  him 
talk,  and  ...  his  marriage  .  .  .  you  know.  .  .  ." 

...  If  I  had  done  that,  I  should  have  been  easy  and 


1 66  TH  E    TUNNEL 

strong  and  could  have  '  made  conversation  '  when  she  began 
talking  about  bicycling.  I  was  like  the  man  who  proposed 
to  the  girl  at  the  dance  because  he  could  not  think  of  any- 
thing to  say  to  her.  He  could  not  think  of  anything  to 
say  because  he  had  something  on  his  mind.  .  .  . 

And  Miss  Szigmondy  would  not  have  called  this  morning. 

"  No  one  can  pronounce  my  name.  You  had  better  call 
me  Thegese  my  dear  girl.  Yes,  do;  I  want  you  to."  She 
had  said  that  with  a  worried  face,  a  sudden  manner  of 
unsmiling  intimacy.  She  certainly  had  some  plan.  Stand- 
ing there  with  her  broken  hearted  voice  and  her  anxious 
face  she  seemed  to  be  separate  from  the  room,  even  from 
her  own  clothes.  Yet  something  within  her  was  moving  so 
quickly  that  it  made  one  breathless.  She  was  so  intent  that 
she  was  unconscious  of  the  appealing  little  figure  she  made 
huddled  in  her  English  clothes.  She  stood  dressed  and 
determined  and  prosperous  her  smart  little  toque  held  closely 
against  her  dark  hair  and  sallow  face  with  the  kind  of 
chenille-spotted  veil  that  was  a  rampart  against  every- 
thing in  the  world  to  an  Englishwoman.  But  it  did  not 
touch  her  or  do  anything  for  her.  It  gave  an  effect  of 
prison  bars  behind  which  she  was  hanging  her  head  and 
weeping  and  appealing.  One  could  have  laughed  and 
gathered  her  up.  Why  was  she  forlorn  ?  Why  did  she 
imagine  that  one  was  also  forlorn?  The  sight  of  her  made 
all  the  forlornness  one  had  ever  seen  or  read  about  seem 
peopled  with  knowledge  and  sympathy  and  warm  thoughts 
that  flew  crowding  along  one's  brain  as  close  and  bright 
as  the  texture  of  everybody's  everyday.  Rut  the  eyes  were 
anxious  and  preoccupied,  blinking  now  and  then  in  her 
long  unswerving  appealing  gaze,  shutting  swiftly  for  light- 
ning calculations  between  her  rapid  appealing  statements. 
What  was  she  trying  to  do? 


THE   TUNNEL  167 

She  tried  to  stand  in  front  of  everything,  to  put  every- 
thing aside  as  if  it  were  part  of  something  she  knew. 
Laughing  over  it  with  Mr.  Hancock  would  not  dispose  of 
that.  After  the  fun  of  telling  him,  she  would  still  be  there, 
with  the  two  bicycle  lessons  that  were  going  begging.  He 
knew  already  that  she  had  been  and  would  assume  that 
she  had  suggested  things  and  that  one  was  not  going  to  do 
them.  If  one  told  him  about  the  lessons  he  would  say  that 
is  very  kind  and  would  mean  it.  He  was  always  fine  in 
thinking  a  "  kind  "  action  kind  .  .  .  but  she  does  not  come 
because  she  wants  me.  She  does  not  want  anybody.  She 
does  not  know  the  difference  between  one  person  and 
another.  .  .  .  He  knows  only  her  social  manner.  She  has 
never  been  alone  with  him  and  come  close  and  shown  him 
her  determination  and  her  sorrow  .  .  .  sorrow  .  .  .  sor- 
row. .  .  . 

He  could  never  see  that  it  was  impossible  without  forcibly 
crushing  her,  to  get  out  of  doing  some  part  of  what  she 
desired.  .  .  . 

If  one  were  drawn  in  and  did  things,  let  oneself  want 
to  do  things  for  anyone  else,  there  would  be  a  change  in  the 
atmosphere  at  Wimpole  Street.  That  never  occurred  to 
him.  But  he  would  feel  it  if  it  happened.  If  there  were 
someone  near  who  made  distractions  there  would  be  a 
difference,  something  that  was  not  given  to  him.  He  was 
so  unaware  of  this.  He  was  absolutely  ignorant  of  what 
it  was  that  kept  things  going  as  they  were. 


CHAPTER    IX 


THE  cycling  school  was  out  of  sight  and  done  with  and 
Miriam   hurried   down   the   Chalk   Farm   Road.     If 
only  she  could  see  an  omnibus  and  be  in  it  going  anywhere 
down  away  from  the  north.     Miss  Szigmondy  had  brought 
shame  and  misery  upon  her,  in  Chalk  Farm.     There  was 
nothing  there  to  keep  off  the  pain.     Once  back  she  would 
never  think  of  Chalk  Farm  again.     How  could  anyone  think 
it  was  a  place,  like  other  places  ?     It  was  torture  even  to  be 
in  it,  going  through  it.  ...  Of  course  the  man  had  thought 
I  should  take  on  a  course  of  lessons  and  pay  for  them.     I 
have    to    learn    everything    meanly    and    shamefully.     He 
thinks  I'm  getting  all  I  can  for  nothing.     The  people  in  the 
bus  will  see  me  pay  my  fare  and  I  shall  be  all  right  again, 
going  down  there.     What  an  awful  road,  going  on  and  on 
with  nothing  in  it.     I  am  ashamed  and  helpless ;  helpless. 
It's  no  use  to  try  and  do  anything.     It  always  exposes  me 
and  brings  this  maddening  shame  and  pain.     It's  over  again 
this  time  and  I  shall  soon  forget  it  altogether.     I  might  just 
as  well  begin  to  stop  thinking  about  it  now.     It's  this  part 
of  London.     It's  like  Banbury  Park.     To  people  are  ab- 
solutely   awful.     They    take    cycling    lessons    quite    coolly. 
They  are  not  afraid  of  anybody.     To  them  this  part  is  the 
best  bit  of  North  London.     They  are  that  sort  of  people. 
They   are    all   alike.     All    of    them    would    dislike    me.     I 
should  die  of  being  with  them. 

Why  is  it  that  no  one  seems  to  know  what  north  London 

168 


THE   TUNNEL  169 

is  ?  They  say  it  is  healthy  and  open.  Perhaps  I  shall  meet 
someone  who  feels  like  I  do  about  it  and  would  get  ill  and 
die  there.  It  is  not  imagination.  It  is  a  real  feeling  that 
comes  upon  me.  .  .  . 

The  north  London  omnibus  reached  the  tide  of  the 
Euston  Road  and  pulled  up  at  Portland  Road  station. 
Miriam  got  out  weak  and  ill.  The  first  breath  of  the  cen- 
tral air  revived  her.  Standing  there,  the  omnibus  looked 
like  any  other  omnibus.  She  crossed  the  road,  averting  her 
eyes  from  the  north-going  roads  on  either  side  of  the  church 
and  got  into  the  inmost  corner  of  another  bus.  She  wanted 
to  ride  about,  getting  from  bus  to  bus,  inside  London  un- 
til her  misery  had  passed.  Opposite  her  was  a  stout  woman 
in  a  rusty  bonnet  and  shawl  and  dust-defaced  black  skirt, 
looking  about  with  eyes  that  did  not  see  what  they  looked 
at,  all  the  London  consciousness  in  her.  Miriam  sat  gaz- 
ing at  her.  The  woman's  eyes  crossed  her  and  passed  un- 
perturbed. .  .  . 

The  lane  of  little  shops  flowed  away,  their  huddled  detail 
crushing  together,  wide  shop  windows  glittered  steadily  by 
and  narrowed  away.  When  the  bus  stopped  at  Gower 
Street  the  spire  of  St.  Pancras  church  came  into  sight 
spindling  majestically  up,  screened  by  trees. 

The  trees  in  Endsleigh  Gardens  came  along  gently  wav- 
ing their  budding  branches  in  bright  sunshine.  The  colour 
of  the  gardens  was  so  intense  that  the  sun  must  just  be 
going  to  set  behind  Euston  Station.  The  large  houses 
moved  steadily  behind  the  gardens  in  blocks,  bright  white, 
with  large  quiet  streets  opening  their  vistas  in  between  the 
blocks,  leading  to  green  freshness  and  then  safely  on  down 
into  Soho.  The  long  square  came  to  an  end.  The  shrub- 
trimmed  base  of  St.  Pancras  church  came  heavily  nearer 
and  stopped.  As  Miriam  got  out  of  the  bus  she  watched 
its  great  body  rise  in  clear  sharp  outline  against  the  blue. 


i7o  TH  E    TUNNEL 

Its  clock  was  booming  the  hour  out  across  the  gardens 
through  the  houses  and  down  into  the  squares.  On  this 
side  its  sound  was  broken  up  by  the  narrow  roar  of  the 
Euston  Road  and  the  clamour  coming  right  and  left  from 
the  two  great  stations. 

Her  feet  tramped  happily  across  the  square  of  polished 
roadway  patterned  with  shadows  and  along  the  quiet  clean 
sunlit  pavement  behind  the  gardens.  It  was  always  bright 
and  clean  and  quiet  and  happy  there,  like  the  pavement 
of  a  road  behind  a  sea-front.  The  sound  of  a  mail  van 
rattling  heavily  along  Woburn  Place  changed  to  a  soft 
rumble  as  she  turned  in  between  the  great  houses  of  Tans- 
ley  Street  and  walked  along  its  silent  corridor  of  afternoon 
light.  Sparrows  were  cheeping  in  the  stillness.  To  be 
able  to  go  down  the  quiet  street  and  on  into  the  squares  — 
on  a  bicycle.  ...  I  must  learn  somehow  to  get  my  balance. 
To  go  along,  like  in  that  moment  when  he  took  his  hands 
off  the  handle-bars,  in  knickers  and  a  short  skirt  and  all  the 
summer  to  come.  .  .  .  Everything  shone  with  a  greater  in- 
tensity. Friends  and  thought  and  work  were  nothing  com- 
pared to  being  able  to  ride  alone,  balanced,  going  along 
through  the  air. 

On  the  hall  table  was  a  post-card.  "  Come  round  on 
Sunday  if  you're  in  town  —  Irlandisches  Ragout.  Mag." 
Her  heart  stirred:  that  settled  it  —  the  girls  wanted  her; 
Mag  wanted  her.  She  took  Alma's  crumpled  letter  from 
her  pocket  and  glanced  through  it  once  more  ..."  such 
a  dull  Sunday  and  all  your  fault.  Why  did  you  not  come? 
Come  on  Saturday  an\  time  or  Sunday  morning  if  you 
can't  manage  the  week-end?"  What  a  good  thing  she  had 
not  written  promising  to  go.  She  would  be  in  London, 
safe  in  Kennett  Street  for  Sunday.  Mag  was  quite  right; 
going  away  unsettled  you  for  the  week  and  you  did  not 
get  Sunday.     She  looked  at  her  watch,  five-thirty;  in  half 


THE   TUNNEL  171 

an  hour  the  girls  would  probably  be  at  Slater's;  the  Lon- 
don week-end  could  begin  this  minute ;  all  the  people  who 
half-expected  her,  the  Brooms,  the  Pernes,  Sarah  and  Har- 
riett, the  Wilsons,  would  be  in  their  homes  far  away;  she 
safe  in  Bloomsbury,  in  the  big  house  the  big  kind  streets, 
Kennett  Street;  places  they  none  of  them  knew;  safe  for 
the  whole  length  of  the  week-end.  Saturday  had  looked 
so  obstructed,  with  the  cycling  lesson,  and  the  visit  to  Miss 
Szigmondy  and  the  many  alternatives  for  the  rest  of  the 
time.  ..."  Oh  I've  got  about  fifty  engagements  for  Sat- 
urday "  and  now  Saturday  was  clear  and  she  felt  equal  to 
anything  for  the  week-end.  What  a  discovery,  standing 
hidden  there  in  the  London  house,  to  drop  everything  and  go 
down,  with  all  the  discarded  engagements,  all  the  solicitous 
protecting  friends  put  aside ;  easy  and  alone  through  the 
glimmering  green  squares  to  the  end  of  the  Strand  and  find 
Slater's.  .  .  .  I'll  never  stir  out  of  London  again.  The 
girls  are  right.     It  isn't  worth  it. 


She  saw  the  girls  seated  at  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the 
big  restaurant  and  shyly  advanced. 

"Hulloh  child!" 

"What  you  having?"  she  asked  sitting  down  opposite 
to  them.  The  empty  white  table-cloth  shone  under  a 
brilliant  incandescent  light;  far  away  down  the  vista  the 
door  opened  on  the  daylit  street. 

"  Isn't  it  a  glorious  Spring  evening?  "  Spring?  It  was, 
of  course.  Everyone  had  been  saying  the  spring  would 
never  come,  but  to-day  it  was  very  warm.  Spring  was  here 
of  course.  Perspiring  in  a  dusty  cycling  school  and  sitting 
in  a  hot  restaurant  was  not  spring.  Spring  was  somewhere 
far  away.  Going  to  stay  and  talk  in  people's  houses  did 
not  bring   Spring  —  landscapes  belonging  to   people  were 


i72  TH  E    TUNNEL 

painted;  you  must  be  alone  ...  or  perhaps  at  the  Brooms. 
Perhaps  next  week-end  at  the  Brooms  would  be  in  time  for 
the  spring;  in  their  back  garden,  the  watered  green  lawn  and 
the  sweetbriar  and  the  distant  trees  in  the  large  garden 
beyond  the  fence.  In  London  it  was  better  not  to  think 
about  the  times  of  year. 

But  Mag  seemed  to  find  Spring  in  London.  Her  face 
was  all  glowing  with  the  sense  of  it. 

'*  What  you  having?  " 

"  Have  you  observed  with  what  a  remarkable  brilliance 
the  tender  green  shines  out  against  the  soot-black 
branches?"  Yes,  that  was  wonderful  but  what  was  the 
joke? 

"  Every  spring  I  have  spent  in  Lonndonn  I  have  heard 
that  remark  at  least  fifty  times." 

Miriam  laughed  politely.  "  Jan,  what  have  you  or- 
dered?" 

"  We've  ordered  beef  my  child,  cold  beefs  and  salads." 

"Do  you  think  I  should  like  salad?" 

"  If  you  had  a  brother  would  he  like  salad?" 

"  Do  they  put  dressing  on  it?  If  I  could  have  just  plain 
lettuce." 

"  As  for  it  my  child,  ask  and  it  shall  be  given  unto  thee." 

"  A  waitress  brought  the  beef  and  salad,  two  glasses  with 
an  inch  of  whisky  in  each,  and  a  large  syphon. 

Miriam  ordered  beef  and  potatoes. 

"  I  suppose  the  steak  and  onion  days  are  over." 

"  T  shan't  have  another  steak  and  onions,  please  God, 
until  next  November." 

Miriam  laughed  delightedly. 

"  Why  haven't  you  gone  away  for  the  week-end,  child  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  she  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  know.     I  wanted  to  come  down  here." 

"  Is  that  a  compliment  to  us?" 


THE   TUNNEL  173 

"  I  say,  I've  had  a  bicycle  lesson." 

Both  faces  came  up  eagerly. 

"  You  remember ;  that  extraordinary  woman  I  met  at 
the  Royal  Institution." 

The  faces  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Oh  you  know ;  I  told  you  about  it  —  the  two  lessons 
she  didn't  want." 

"  Go  on  my  child;  we  remember;  go  on." 

Miriam  sat  eating  her  beef. 

"  Go  on  Miriam.  You've  really  had  a  lesson.  I'm  de- 
lighted my  child.     Tell  us  all  about  it." 

"  D'you  remember  the  extraordinary  moment  when  you 
felt  the  machine  going  along;  even  with  the  man  holding 
the  handle-bars  ?  " 

"  You  wait  until  there's  nobody  to  hold  the  handle-bars." 

"  Have  you  been  out  alone  yet  ?  " 

The  two  faces  looked  at  each  other. 

"Shall  we  tell  her?" 

"  You  must  tell  me ;  es  ist  bestimmt  in  Gottes  Rath." 

They  leaned  across  the  table  and  spoke  low  one  after 
the  other.  "  We  went  out  —  last  night  —  after  dark  — 
and  rode  —  round  Russell  Square  —  twice  —  in  our 
knickers " 

"No.     Did  you  really?     How  simply  heavenly." 

"  It  was.  We  came  home  nearly  crying  with  rage  at  not 
being  able  to  go  about,  permanently,  in  nothing  but  knick- 
ers.    It  would  make  life  an  absolutely  different  thing." 

"  The  freedom  of  movement." 

"  Exactly.     You  feel  like  a  sprite  you  are  so  light." 

"  And  like  a  poet  though  you  don't  know  it." 

"  You  feel  like  a  sprite  you  are  so  light,  and  you  feel  so 
strong  and  capable  and  so  broadshouldered  you  could  knock 
down  a  policeman.  Jan  and  I  knocked  down  several  last 
night." 


174  THE    TUNNEL 

"Yes;  and  it  is  not  only  that;  think  of  never  having  to 
brush  your  skirt." 

"  I  know.     It  would  be  bliss." 

"  I  spend  half  my  life  brushing  my  skirt.  If  I  miss  a 
day  I  notice  it  —  if  I  miss  two  days  the  office  notices  it.  If 
I  miss  three  days  the  public  notices  it." 

"  La  vie  est  dure;  pour  les  femmes." 

"  You  don't  want  to  be  a  man  Jan." 

"  Oh  I  do,  sometimes.  They  have  the  best  of  every- 
thing all  round." 

"  /  don't.  I  wouldn't  be  a  man  for  anything.  I  wouldn't 
have  a  man's  —  consciousness,  for  anything." 

"  Why  not  asthore  ?  " 

"  They're  too  absolutely  pig-headed  and  silly.  .  .  ." 

"Isn't  she  intolerant?" 

Miriam  sat  flaring.  That  was  not  the  right  answer. 
There  was  something;  and  they  must  know  it;  but  they 
would  not  admit  it. 

"Then  you  can  both  really  ride?" 

"  We  do  nothing  else ;  we've  given  up  walking ;  we  no 
longer  walk  up  and  downstairs ;  we  ride." 

Miriam  laughed  her  delight.  "I  can  quite  understand; 
it  alters  everything.  I  realised  that  this  afternoon  at  the 
school.  To  be  able  to  bicycle  would  make  life  utterly 
different ;  on  a  bicycle  you  feel  a  different  person ;  nothing 
can  come  near  you,  you  forget  who  you  are.  Aren't  you 
glad  you  are  alive  to-day,  when  all  these  things  are  hap- 
pening? " 

"  What  things  little  one  ?  " 

"  Well  cycling  and  things.  You  know  girls  when  I'm 
thirty  I'm  going  to  cut  my  hair  short  and  wear  divided 
skirts." 

Both  faces  came  up. 

"  Why  on  earth  ?  " 


THE   TUNNEL  175 

"  I  can't  face  doing  my  hair  and  brushing  skirts  and 
keeping  more  or  less  in  the  fashion,  that  means  about  two 
years  behind  because  I  never  realise  fashions  till  they're 
just  going,  even  if  I  could  afford  to, —  all  my  life." 

"  Then  why  not  do  it  now  ?  " 

"  Because  all  my  friends  and  relatives  would  object.  It 
would  worry  them  too  —  they  would  feel  quite  sure  then  I 
should  never  marry  —  and  they  still  entertain  hopes, 
secretly." 

"  Don't  you  want  to  marry  —  ever ;  ever  ?  " 

"  Well  —  it  would  mean  giving  up  this  life." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     I  agree  there.     That  can't  be  faced." 

"  I  should  think  not.  Aren't  you  going  to  have  any  pud- 
ding?" 

"  But  why  thirty  ?    Why  not  thirty-one  ?  " 

"  Because  nobody  cares  what  you  do  when  you're  thirty ; 
they've  all  given  up  hope  by  that  time.  Aren't  you  two 
going  to  have  any  pudding?  " 

"  No.     But  that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not." 

"  What  a  good  idea  —  to  have  just  one  dish  and  coffee." 

"  That's  what  we  think ;  and  it's  cheap." 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  have  had  any  dinner  at  all  only  I'm 
cadging  dinner  with  you  to-morrow." 

"  What  would  you  have  done  ?  " 

"  An  egg,  at  an  A.  B.  C." 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  A.  B.  C's." 

"  I  love  them." 

"  What  is  it  that  you  love  about  them." 

"Chiefly  I  think  their  dowdiness.  The  food  is  honest; 
not  showy,  and  they  are  so  blissfully  dowdy." 

Both  girls  laughed. 

"  It's  no  good.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  I  like 
dowdiness.     I'm  not  smart.     You  are." 

"  This  is  the  first  we  have  heard  of  it." 


176  THE    TUNNEL 

"  Well  you  know  you  are.  You  keep  in  the  fashion.  It 
may  be  quite  right,  perhaps  you  are  more  sociable  than  I 
am. 

"  One  is  so  conspicuous  if  one  is  not  dressed  more  or  less 
like  other  people." 

"That's  what  I  hate;  dressing  like  other  people.  If  I 
could  afford  it  I  should  be  stylish  —  not  smart.  Perfect 
coats  and  skirts  and  a  few  good  evening  dresses.  But  you 
must  be  awfully  well  off  for  that.  If  I  can't  be  stylish  I'd 
rather  be  dowdy  and  in  a  way  I  like  dowdiness  even  better 
than  stylishness." 

The  girls  laughed. 

"But  aren't  clothes  awful,  anyhow?  I've  spent  four  and 
eleven  on  my  knickers  and  I  can't  possibly  get  a  skirt  till 
next  year  if  then,  or  afford  to  hire  a  machine." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  them  to  raise  your  salary  ?  " 

"After  four  months?  Beside  any  fool  could  do  the 
work." 

"  If  I  were  you  I  should  tell  them.  I  should  say  '  Gentle- 
men —  I  wish  for  a  skirt  and  a  bicycle.'  " 

"  Mag,  don't  be  so  silly." 

"  I  can't  see  it.  They  would  benefit  by  your  improved 
health  and  spirits.  Jan  and  I  are  new  women  since  we  have 
learned  riding.  /  am  thinking  of  telling  the  governor  I 
must  have  a  rise  to  meet  the  increased  demands  of  my 
appetite.  Our  housekeeping  expenses  I  shall  say  are 
doubled.     What  will  you?     Que  faire?" 

"  You  see  the  work  I'm  doing  is  not  worth  more  than  a 
pound  a  week  —  my  languages  are  no  good  there.  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  learn  typing  and  shorthand ;  but  where  could 
I  find  the  money  for  the  training?" 

"Will  you  teach  her  shorthand  if  I  teach  her  typing?" 

"  Certainly  if  the  child  wants  to  learn.  I  don't  advise 
her." 


THE   TUNNEL  177 

"  Why  not  Jan.  You  did.  How  long  would  it  take  me 
in  evenings  ?  " 

"  A  year  at  least,  to  be  marketable.  It's  a  vile  thing  to 
learn,  unless  you  are  thoroughly  stupid." 

"  That's  true.  Jan  was  a  perfect  fool.  The  more  in- 
telligent you  are  the  longer  you  take." 

"  You  see  it  isn't  a  language.  It  is  an  arbitrary  system 
of  signs." 

"  With  your  intelligence  you'd  probably  grow  grey  at  the 
school.     Wouldn't  she,  Jan  ?  " 

"  Probably." 

"  Besides  I  can't  imagine  Mistress  Miriam  in  an  office." 

"  Nobody  would  have  me.  I'm  not  business-like  enough. 
I  am  learning  book-keeping  at  their  expense.  And  don't 
forget  they  give  me  lunch  and  tea.  I  say  are  we  going  to 
read  '  The  Evolution  Idea  of  God '  to-night?  " 

"  Yes.  Let's  get  back  and  get  our  clothes  off.  If  I 
don't  have  a  cigarette  within  half  an  hour  I  shall  die." 

"  Oh,  so  shall  I.  I  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  cigar- 
ettes." 

Out  in  the  street  Miriam  felt  embarrassed.  The  sunset 
glow  broke  through  wherever  there  was  a  gap  towards  the 
north-west,  and  flooded  a  strip  of  the  street  and  struck  a 
building.  The  presence  of  the  girls  added  a  sharpness  to 
its  beauty,  especially  the  presence  of  Mag  who  felt  the 
spring  even  in  London.  But  both  of  them  seemed  entirely 
oblivious.  They  marched  along  at  a  great  rate,  very  up- 
right and  swift  —  like  grenadiers  —  why  grenadiers?  Like 
grenadiers,  making  her  hurry  in  a  way  that  increased  the 
discomfort  of  her  hard  cheap  down-at-heel  shoes.  Their 
high-heeled  shoes  were  in  perfect  condition  and  they  went 
on  and  on  laughing  and  jesting  as  if  there  were  no  spring 
evening  all  round  them.  She  wanted  to  stroll,  and  stop  at 
every  turn  of  the  road.     She  grew  to  dislike  them  both 


178  THETUNNEL 

long  before  Kennett  Street  was  reached,  their  brisk  gait 
as  they  walked  together  in  step,  leaving  her  to  manoeuvre 
the  passing  of  pedestrians  on  the  narrow  pavements  of  the 
side  streets,  the  self-confident  set  of  their  this-season's 
clothes,  "  line "  clothes,  like  everyone  else  was  wearing, 
everyone  this  side  of  the  west-end;  Oxford  Street  clothes 
.  .  .  and  to  long  to  be  wandering  home  alone  through  the 
leafy  squares.  Were  people  who  lived  together  always  like 
this,  always  brisk  and  joking  and  keeping  it  up?  They 
got  on  so  well  together  .  .  .  and  she  got  on  so  well  too 
with  them.  "  No  one  ever  feels  a  third  "  Mag  had  said. 
I  am  tired,  too  tired.  They  are  stronger  than  I  am.  I 
feel  dead ;  and  they  are  perfectly  fresh. 

"  D'you  know  I  believe  I  feel  too  played  out  to  read  " 
she  said  at  their  door. 

"  Then  come  in  and  smoke  "  said  Mag  taking  her  arm. 
"  The  night  is  yet  young." 


CHAPTER   X 


MIRIAM  swung  her  legs  from  the  table  and  brought 
her  tilted  chair  to  the  ground.  The  leads  sloped 
down  as  she  got  to  her  feet  and  the  strip  of  sky  disappeared. 
The  sunlight  made  a  broad  strip  of  gold  along  the  parapet 
and  a  dazzling  plaque  upon  the  slope  of  the  leads.  She 
lounged  into  the  shadowy  middle  of  the  room  and  stood 
feeling  tall  and  steady  and  easy  and  agile  in  the  freedom 
of  knickers.  The  clothes  lying  on  the  bed  were  trans- 
formed. "  I  say "  she  murmured.  Her  cigarette  end 
wobbling  encouragingly  from  the  corner  of  her  lips  as  she 
spoke,  "  they're  not  bad."  She  strolled  about  the  room 
glancing  at  them  from  different  points  of  view.  They 
really  made  quite  a  good  whole.  It  was  the  lilac  that  made 
them  a  good  whole,  the  fresh  heavy  blunt  cones  of  pure 
colour.  In  the  distance  the  bunched  ribbon  looked  almost 
all  green.  She  drew  the  hat  nearer  to  the  light  and  the 
ribbon  became  mauve  with  green  shadows  and  green  with 
mauve  shadows  as  it  moved.  The  girl  had  been  right  about 
bunching  the  ribbon  a  little  way  up  the  sugar-loaf  and 
over  the  wide  brim.  It  broke  the  papery  stiffness  of  the 
lilac  and  the  harshness  of  the  black  straw.  The  straw 
looked  very  harsh  and  black  in  the  clearer  light.  Out  of 
doors  it  would  look  almost  as  if  it  had  been  done  with  that 
awful  shiny  hat  polish.  If  the  straw  had  been  dull  and 
silky  and  some  shaded  tone  of  mauve  and  green  it  would 
have  been  one  of  those  hats  that  give  you  a  sort  of  mad- 

i79 


180  THE   TUNNEL 

ness,  taking  your  eyes  in  and  in,  with  the  effect  of  a  misty 
distant  woodland  brought  near  and  moving,  depths  of  inter- 
woven colour  under  your  eyes.  But  it  would  not  have  gone 
with  the  black  and  white  check.  The  black  part  of  the  hat 
was  right  for  the  tiny  check.  That  is  the  idea  of  some 
smart  woman.  ...  I  did  not  think  of  it  in  the  shop,  but 
I  got  it  right  somehow,  I  can  see  now.  It's  right.  Those 
might  be  someone  else's  things.  .  .  .  The  sight  of  the  black 
suede  gloves  and  the  lace-edged  handkerchief  and  the 
powder  box  laid  out  on  the  chest  of  drawers  made  her 
eager  to  begin.  This  was  dressing.  The  way  to  feel  you 
were  dressing  was  to  put  everything  out  first  and  come 
back  as  another  person  and  make  a  grand  toilet.  It  makes 
you  feel  free  and  leisurely.  There  had  been  the  long 
strange  morning.  In  half  an  hour  the  adventure  would 
begin  and  go  on  and  be  over.  The  room  would  not  be 
in  it.  Something  nice  or  horrible  would  come  back.  But 
the  room  would  not  be  changed. 


She  found  the  dark  green  Atlas  'bus  standing  ready  by 
the  curb  and  waited  until  it  was  just  about  to  start,  looking 
impatiently  up  and  down  the  long  vistas  of  the  empty  Sun- 
day street,  and  then  jumped  hurriedly  in  with  the  polite 
half-irritated  resignation  of  the  man  about  town  who  finds 
himself  stranded  in  a  godforsaken  part  of  London,  and 
steered  herself  carefully  against  the  swaying  of  the  vehicle 
along  between  the  rows  of  seated  forms,  keeping  her  eyes 
carefully  averted  and  fixed  upon  distant  splendours.  Secur- 
ing an  empty  corner  she  sat  down  provisionally,  on  the 
edge  of  the  seat,  occupying  the  least  possible  space,  clear 
of  her  neighbour,  her  eyes  turned  inwards  on  splendours 
still  raking  the  street,  her  person  ready  to  leap  up  at  the 
sight  of  a  crawling  hansom  —  telling  herself   in  a   drawl 


THE    TUNNEL  181 

that  she  felt  must  somehow  be  audible  to  an  observant 
listener  how  damnable  it  was  that  there  were  not  hansoms 
in  these  remarkable  backwoods  —  so  damned  inconvenient 
when  your  own  barrow  is  laid  up  at  Windover's.  But  a 
hansom  might  possibly  appear.  .  .  .  She  turned  to  the 
little  corner  window  at  her  side  and  gazed  with  fierce  ab- 
straction down  the  on-coming  street.  Presently  she  would 
really  be  in  a  hansom.  Miss  Szigmondy  had  mentioned 
hansoms  .  .  .  supposing  she  should  have  to  pay  her  share? 
Her  heart  beat  rapidly  and  her  face  flushed  as  she  thought 
of  the  fourpence  in  her  purse.  She  would  not  be  able 
even  to  offer.  But  if  Miss  Szigmondy  were  alone  she 
would  take  cabs.  There  would  be  no  need  to  mention  it. 
The  ambling  trit-trot  of  the  vehicle  gradually  prevailed 
over  the  mood  in  which  she  had  dressed.  She  was  be- 
coming aware  of  her  companions.  Presently  she  would 
be  taking  them  all  in  and  getting  into  a  world  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her  afternoon.  Turning  aside  so  that 
her  face  could  not  be  seen  and  her  own  vision  might  be 
restricted  to  the  roadway  rolling  slowly  upon  her  through 
the  little  end  window  she  dreamed  of  contriving  somehow 
or  other  to  save  money  for  hansoms.  Hansoms  were  a 
necessary  part  of  the  worldly  life.  Floating  about  in  a 
hansom  in  the  west-end,  in  the  season  was  like  nothing  else 
in  the  world.  It  changed  you,  your  feelings,  manner,  bear- 
ing, everything.  It  made  you  part  of  a  wonderful  exclu- 
sive difficult  triumphant  life,  a  streak  of  it,  going  in  and 
out.  It  cut  you  off  from  all  personal  difficulties,  made  you 
drop  your  personality  and  lifted  you  right  out  into  the 
freedom  of  a  throng  of  happy  people,  a  great  sunlit  tide 
singing,  all  the  same  laughing  song,  wave  after  wave,  ad- 
vancing, in  open  sunlight.  It  took  you  on  to  a  great  stage, 
lit  and  decked,  where  you  were  lost,  everything  was  lost 
and    forgotten    in    the    masque.     Nothing   personal    could 


1 82  THE    TUNNEL 

matter  so  long  as  you  were  there  and  kept  there,  day  and 
night.  Everyone  was  invisible  and  visionless,  united  in 
the  spectacle,  gliding  and  hiding  the  underworld  in  a  bril- 
liant embroidery  .  .   .  continuously. 

As  they  rumbled  up  Baker  Street,  she  wondered  im- 
patiently why  Miss  Szigmondy  had  not  appointed  a  meet- 
ing place  in  the  West  end.  Raker  Street  began  all  right ; 
one  felt  safe  going  up  Orchard  Street,  past  the  beautiful 
china  shop  and  the  Romish  richness  of  Rurns  and  Oates. 
seeing  the  sequestered  worldliness  of  Granville  Place  and 
rolling  through  Portman  Square  with  its  enormous  grey 
houses  masking  hidden  wealth ;  but  after  that  it  became  a 
dismal  corridor  retreating  towards  the  full  chill  of  the  north. 
If  they  had  met  in  Piccadilly  they  could  have  driven 
straight  down  through  heaven  into  Chelsea.  Perhaps  it 
would  not  be  heaven  with  Miss  Szigmondy.  She  would 
not  know  the  difference  in  the  feeling  of  the  different  parts 
of  London.  She  would  drive  along  like  a  foreigner  —  or 
a  member  of  a  provincial  antiquarian  society,  "  intelli- 
gently "  noticing  things,  knowing  about  the  buildings  and 
the  statues.  Londoners  were  always  twitted  with  not 
knowing  about  London  .  .  .  the  reason  why  they  jested 
about  it,  half  proudly,  was  their  consciousness  of  being 
Londoners,  living  in  London,  going  about  happy,  the  minute 
they  were  outside  their  houses,  looking  at  nothing  and  feel- 
ing everything,  like  people  wandering  happily  from  room  to 
room  in  a  well  known  house  at  some  time  when  every- 
body's attention  was  turned  away  by  a  festival  or  a  catas- 
trophe. .  .  .  London  was  like  a  prairie.  In  a  hansom  it 
would  be  heaven,  with  anybody.  A  hansom  saved  you 
from  your  companion  more  than  any  other  vehicle.  You 
were  as  much  outside  it  in  London  as  you  were  inside  with 
your  companion,  if  you  were  anywhere  south  of  Maryle- 
bone  .  .  .  the  way  the  open  hood  framed  the  vista.  .  .  . 


THE   TUNNEL  183 

3 

There  was  a  hansom  waiting  outside  Miss  Szigmondy's 
garden  gate.  The  afternoon  would  begin  at  once  with  a 
swift  drive  back  into  the  world.  Miss  Szigmondy  met  her 
in  the  dark  hall,  with  an  outbreak  of  bright  guttural  talk, 
talking  as  she  collected  her  things,  breaking  in  with  shouted 
instructions  to  an  invisible  servant.  Her  voice  sounded 
very  foreign  in  the  excited  upper  notes,  but  it  rang,  a  thin 
wiry  ring,  not  shrieking  and  breaking  like  the  voices  of 
excited  Englishwomen,  perhaps  that  was  "  voice  produc- 
tion." 

In  the  cab  she  sat  sorting  her  cards,  reading  out  names. 
Miriam  thrilled  as  she  heard  them.  Miss  Szigmondy's 
attention  was  no  longer  on  her.  Her  mind  slipped  easily 
back;  the  intervening  time  fell  away.  She  was  going  with 
her  sisters  along  past  the  Burlington  Arcade,  she  saw  the 
pillar  box,  the  old  man  selling  papers,  the  old  woman  with 
the  crooked  black  sailor  hat  and  the  fringed  shawl,  sitting 
on  a  box  behind  her  huge  basket  of  tulips  and  daffodils 
.  .  .  the  great  grimed  stone  pillars,  the  court  yard  beyond 
them  blazing  with  sunshine,  the  wide  stone  steps  at  the  far 
end  of  the  court  yard  leading  up  into  cool  shadow,  the 
turnstile  and  great  hall,  an  archway,  and  the  sudden  fresh 
blaze  of  colours.  .  .  . 

But  the  hansom  had  turned  into  the  main  road  and  was 
going  north.  They  were  going  even  further  north  than 
Miss  Szigmondy's  ...  up  a  straight  empty  Sunday  subur- 
ban road  between  rows  of  suburban  houses  with  gardens 
that  tried  to  look  pretty  ...  an  open  silly  prettiness  like 
suburban  ladies  coming  up  to  town  for  matinees  ...  If 
there  were  artists  living  up  here  it  would  not  be  worth 
while  to  go  and  see  them.  .  .  . 


1 84  THE   TUNNEL 


As  the  afternoon  wore  on  it  dawned  upon  Miriam  that 
if  Miss  Szigmondy  were  to  be  at  the  poet's  house  in  even- 
ing dress  by  half  past  six,  they  had  seen  nearly  all  they  were 
going  to  see.  There  could  be  no  thought  of  Chelsea.  But 
she  answered  with  a  swift  negative  when  Miss  Szigmondy 
enquired  as  they  were  shown  into  their  hansom  outside 
their  eighth  large  Hampstead  house  whether  she  were  tired. 
Her  unsatisfied  consciousness  ran  ahead,  waiting;  just  be- 
yond, round  the  next  corner  was  something  that  would 
relieve  the  oppression.  "  I  just  want  to  run  in  and  see 
that  poor  boy  Gilbert  Haze."  Then  it  was  over  and  she 
must  go  on  enduring  whilst  Miss  Szigmondy  paid  a  call ; 
unable  to  get  free  because  she  was  being  paid  for  and 
could  not  afford  to  go  back  alone.  They  drove  for  some 
distance,  the  large  houses  disappeared,  they  were  in  amongst 
little  drab  roadways  like  those  round  about  Mornington 
Road.  Perhaps  if  she  improvised  an  engagement  she 
could  find  her  way  to  Regent's  Park  and  get  back.  But 
they  had  come  so  far.  They  must  be  on  the  outskirts  of 
N.W.,  perhaps  even  in  N.  They  pulled  up  before  a  small 
drab  villa.  The  sun  had  gone  behind  the  clouds,  the  short 
street  was  desolate.  No  touch  of  life  or  colour  anywhere, 
hardly  a  sign  of  spring  in  the  small  parched  shrub-filled 
front  gardens,  uniformly  enclosed  by  dusty  railings.  She 
dreaded  her  wait  alone  in  the  cab  with  her  finery  and  her 
empty  afternoon  while  Miss  Szigmondy  visited  her  sick 
friend. 

"  Come  along,"  said  Miss  Szigmondy  from  the  little 
garden  path  "  poor  creature  you  do  look  tired."  Miriam 
got  angrily  out  of  the  cab.  Whose  fault  was  it  that  she 
was  tired?     Why  did  Miss  Szigmondy  go  to  these  things? 


THE   TUNNEL  185 

She  had  not  cared  and  was  not  disappointed  at  not  caring. 
She  was  just  the  same  as  when  she  had  started  out. 

"  I  will  wait  in  the  garden  "  she  said  hurriedly  as  the  door 
opened  on  the  house  of  sickness.  A  short  young  man  with 
untidy  dark  hair  and  a  shabby  suit  stood  in  the  doorway. 
His  brilliant  dark  eyes  smiled  sharply  at  Miss  Szigmondy 
and  shot  beyond  her  towards  Miriam  as  he  stood  aside  hold- 
ing the  door  wide.  "  Come  along "  shouted  Miss  Szig- 
mondy disappearing.  Miriam  came  reluctantly  forward 
and  got  herself  through  the  door,  reaping  the  second  cu- 
rious sharp  smile  as  she  passed.  The  young  man  had  an 
extraordinary  face,  cheerful  and  grimy,  like  a  street  arab ; 
he  was  rather  like  a  street  arab.  Miss  Szigmondy  was  talk- 
ing loudly  from  a  little  room  to  the  right  of  the  door. 
Miriam's  embarrassment  in  the  impossibility  of  explaining 
her  own  superfluous  presence  was  not  relieved  when  she 
entered  the  room.  The  young  man  was  clearly  not  pre- 
pared. It  was  a  most  unwarrantable  intrusion.  She  stood 
at  a  loss  behind  Miss  Szigmondy  who  was  planted,  still 
eagerly  talking,  on  the  small  clear  space  of  bare  boards  — 
cracked  and  dusty,  like  a  warehouse  —  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  tried  not  to  see  anything  in  particular;  but  her 
eyes  already  had  the  sense  that  there  was  nothing  to  sit 
upon,  no  corner  to  retire  into,  nothing  but  an  extraordinary 
confusion  of  shabby  dust-covered  things  laid  bare  by  the 
sunlight  that  poured  through  the  uncurtained  window. 
Her  eyes  took  refuge  in  the  face  of  the  young  man  con- 
fronting Miss  Szigmondy,  making  replies  to  her  volley  of 
questions.  He  had  no  front  teeth,  nothing  but  blackened 
stumps ;  dreadful,  one  ought  not  to  look,  unless  he  were 
going  to  be  helped.  Perhaps  Miss  Szigmondy  was  going 
to  help  him.  But  he  did  not  look  ill.  His  bright  glancing 
eyes  shot  about  as  if  looking  at  something  that  was  not 


1 86  THE   TUNNEL 

there  and  he  answered  Miss  Szigmondy's  sallies  with  a  sort 
of  cheerful  convulsion  of  his  whole  frame.  He  seemed  to 
be  "  on  wires  " ;  but  not  weak  ;  strong  and  cheerful ;  happy  ; 
a  kind  of  cheerfulness  and  happiness  she  had  never  met 
before.  It  was  quiet.  It  came  from  him  soundlessly  mak- 
ing within  his  pleasant  voice  a  gay  noise  that  conquered 
the  strange  embarrassing  room.  Presently  in  answer  to  a 
demand  from  Miss  Szigmondy  he  opened  folding  doors 
and  ushered  them  into  an  adjoining  room. 

5 
Miriam  stood  holding  the  little  group  in  her  hands  long- 
ing for  words.  She  could  only  smile  and  smile.  The 
young  man  stood  by  looking  at  it  and  smiling,  too,  giving 
his  attention  to  Miss  Szigmondy's  questions  about  some 
larger  white  things  standing  in  the  bare  room.  When  he 
moved  away  towards  these  and  she  could  leave  off  wonder- 
ing whether  it  would  do  to  say  "  and  is  this  really  going  to 
the  Academy  next  week  "  instead  of  again  repeating  "  how 
beautiful,"  and  her  eye  could  run  undisturbed  over  and 
over  the  outlines  of  the  two  horses,  impressions  crowded 
upon  her.  The  thing  moved  and  changed  as  she  looked 
at  it ;  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  break  away,  burst  out  of  her 
hands  into  the  surrounding  atmosphere.  Everything  about 
took  on  a  happy  familiarity,  as  if  she  had  long  been  in  the 
bright  bare  plaster-filled  little  room.  From  the  edges  of 
the  small  white  group  a  radiance  spread  freshening  the 
air,  flowing  out  into  the  happy  world,  flowing  back  over 
the  afternoon,  bringing  parts  of  it  to  stand  out  like  great 
fresh  bright  Academy  pictures.  The  great  studios  open- 
ing out  within  the  large  garden-draped  Hampstead  houses 
rich  and  bright  with  colour  in  a  golden  light,  their  fur 
rugs  and  tea  services  on  silver  trays,  and  velvet  coated  men, 
wives  with  trailing  dresses  and  the  people  standing  about. 


THE   TUNNEL  187 

at  once  conspicuous  and  lost,  were  like  Academy  pictures. 
It  was  all  real  now,  the  pictures  on  the  great  easels,  scraps 
of  the  Academy  blaze ;  the  studio  with  the  bright  light,  and 
marble,  and  bright  clear  tiger  skins  on  the  floor,  the  big 
clean  fresh  tiger  almost  filling  the  canvas  ...  the  dark 
studio  with  antique  furniture  and  pictures  of  people  stand- 
ing about  in  historical  clothes.  .  .  . 


"  Goodness  gracious,  isn't  she  a  swell !  " 

"Are  they  all  right?" 

"Are  you  a  millionaire  my  dear?  Have  they  raised  your 
salary?  " 

"  Do  you  really  like  them  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I've  never  seen  you  look  so  nice.  You  ought 
always  to  go  about  in  a  large  black  hat  trimmed  with 
lilac." 

"  Didn't  one  of  the  artists  want  to  paint  your  portrait." 

"  They  all  did.     I've  promised  at  least  twenty  sittings." 

"  Come  nearer  to  the  lamp  fair  child  that  I  may  be  even 
more  dazzled  by  thy  splendour." 

"  I'm  awfully  glad  you  like  them  —  they'll  have  to  go 
on  for  ever." 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  find  the  money  child  ?  " 

"  Borrowed  it  from  Harry.  It  was  her  idea.  You  see 
I  shall  get  four  pounds  for  my  four  weeks'  holiday ;  and  if 
I  go  to  stay  with  them  it  won't  cost  me  anything;  so  she 
advanced  me  two  pounds." 

"  And  you  got  all  this  for  two  pounds  ?  " 

"  Practically ;  the  hat  was  ten  and  six  and  the  other  things 
twenty  seven  and  six  and  the  gloves  half  a  crown." 

"Where  did  you  get  them?" 

"  Edgward  Road." 

"And  just  put  them  on?" 


1 88  TH  E    TUNNEL 

"  It  is  really  remarkable.  Do  you  realise  how  lucky  you 
are  in  being  a  stock  size?" 

"  I  suppose  I  am.  But  you  know  the  awful  thing  about 
it  is  that  they  will  never  come  in  for  Wimpole  Street." 

"  Why  on  earth  not ?  What  could  be  more  ladylike, 
more  —  simple,  more  altogether  suitable?" 

"  You  see  I  have  to  wear  black  there." 

"What  an  extraordinary  idea.     Why?" 

"  Well  they  asked  me  to.  I  don't  know.  I  believe  it's 
the  fault  of  my  predecessor.  They  told  me  she  rustled 
and  wore  all  kinds  of  dresses " 

"  I  see  —  a  series  of  explosions." 

"  On  silk  foundations." 

"  But  why  should  they  assume  that  you  would  do  the 
Same?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It's  an  awful  nuisance.  You  can't  get 
black  blouses  that  will  wash;  it  will  be  awful  in  the  sum- 
mer; besides  it's  so  unbecoming." 

"  There  I  can't  agree.  It  would  be  for  me.  It  makes 
me  look  dingy ;  but  it  suits  you,  throws  up  your  rose-leaf 
complexion  and  your  golden  hair.  But  I  call  it  jolly  hard 
lines.  I'd  like  to  see  the  governor  dictating  to  me  what  I 
should  wear." 

"  It's  so  expensive  if  one  can't  wear  out  one's  best  things." 

"It's   intolerable.     Why  do  you  stand  it?" 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"  Tell  them  you  must  either  wear  scarlet  at  the  office 
or  have  a  higher  screw." 

"  It  isn't  an  office  you  see.  I  have  to  be  so  much  in  the 
surgeries  and  interviewing  people  in  the  waiting-room,  you 
know." 

"  Yes  —  from  dukes  to  dustmen.  But  would  either  the 
dukes  or  the  dustmen  disapprove  of  scarlet." 

"  One  has  to  be  a  discreet  nobody.     It's  the  professional 


THE   TUNNEL  189 

world;  you  don't  understand;  you  are  equals,  you  two, 
superiors,  pampered  countesses  in  your  offices." 

"  Well  I  think  it's  a  beastly  shame.  I  should  brandish 
a  pair  of  forceps  at  Mr.  Hancock  and  say  '  scarlet  —  or  I 
leave.' " 

"  Where  should  I  go,     I  have  no  qualifications." 

"  You  wouldn't  leave.  They  would  say  '  Miss  Hender- 
son wear  purple  and  yellow,  only  stay.'  I  think  it's  a  re- 
flection on  her  taste,  don't  you  Jan.  " 

"  Certainly  it  is.  It  is  fiendish.  But  employers  are  fiends 
to  women." 

"  I  haven't  found  that  soh." 

"  Ah  you  keep  yours  in  order,  you  rule  them  with  a  rod 
of  iron." 

"  I  do.     I  believe  in  it." 

"  I  envy  you  your  late  hours  in  the  morning." 

"  Ah-ha  —  she's  had  a  row  about  that." 

"Have  you  Mag?" 

"  Not  a  row ;  simply  a  discussion." 

"What  happened?" 

"  Simply  this.  The  governor  begged  me  —  almost  in 
tears  —  to  come  down  earlier — for  the  sake  of  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  office." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  Herr  Epstein;  what  can  I  do?  How  do  you 
suppose  I  can  get  up,  have  breakfast  and  be  down  here 
before  eleven?  " 

"What  did  he  say?" 

He  protested  and  implored  and  offered  to  pay  cabs  for 
me. 

"  Good  Lord  Mag,  you  are  extraordinary." 

"  I  am  not  extraordinary  and  it  is  no  concern  of  the 
Deity's.  I  fail  to  see  why  I  should  get  to  the  office  earlier 
than  I  do.     I  don't  get  my  letters  before  half -past  eleven. 


i9o  THE   TUNNEL 

I  am  fresh  and  gay  and  rested,  I  get  through  my  work  be- 
fore closing-time.     I  work  like  anything  whilst  I  am  there." 

"  And  you  still  go  down  at  eleven?  " 

"  I  still  go  down  at  eleven." 

"  I  do  envy  you.  You  see  my  people  always  want  me 
most  first  thing  in  the  morning.  It's  awful,  if  one  has  been 
up  very  late." 

"And  what  is  our  life  worth  without  late  hours?  The 
evening  is  the  only  life  we  have." 

"  Exactly.  And  they  are  the  same  really.  They  do  their 
work  to  be  free  of  it  and  live." 

"  Precisely ;  but  they  are  waited  on.  They  have  their 
houses  and  baths  and  servants  and  meals  and  comforts. 
We  get  up  in  cold  rooms  untended  and  tired.  They  ought 
to  be  first  at  the  office  and  wait  upon  us." 

"  She  is  a  queen  in  her  office ;  waited  upon  hand  and 
foot." 

"Well  —  why  not?  I  do  them  the  honour  of  bringing 
my  bright  petunia  clad  feminine  presence  into  their  dingy 
warehouse ;  I  expect  some  acknowledgment  of  the  honour." 

"  You  don't  allow  them  either  to  spit  or  swear." 

"I  do  not;  and  they  appreciate  it." 

"  Mine  are  beasts.  I  defy  anyone  to  do  anything  with 
them.     I  loathe  the  city  man." 

Miriam  sighed.  In  neither  of  these  offices  she  felt  sure, 
could  she  hold  her  own  —  and  yet  compared  to  her  own 
long  day  —  what  freedom  the  girls  had  —  ten  to  five  and 
eleven  to  six  and  any  clothes  they  found  it  convenient  to 
wear.  But  city  men  ...  no  restrictions  were  too  high  a 
price  to  pay  for  the  privileges  of  her  environment ;  the 
association  with  gentlemen,  her  quiet  room,  the  house,  the 
perpetual  interest  of  the  patients,  the  curious  exciting 
streaks  of  social  life,  linking  up  with  the  past  and  carrying 
the  past  forward  on  a  more  generous  level.     The  girls  had 


THE   TUNNEL  191 

broken  with  the  past  and  were  fighting  in  the  world.  She 
was  somehow  between  two  worlds,  neither  quite  sheltered, 
nor  quite  free  .  .  .  not  free  as  long  as  she  wanted,  in  spite 
of  her  reason  to  stay  on  at  Wimpole  Street  and  please  the 
people  there.  Why  did  she  want  to  stay?  What  future 
would  it  bring?  Less  than  ever  was  there  any  chance  of 
saving  for  old  age.  She  could  not  for  ever  go  on  being 
secretary  to  a  dentist.  .  .  .  She  drove  these  thoughts  away ; 
they  were  only  one  side  of  the  matter;  there  were  other 
things ;  things  she  could  not  make  clear  to  the  girls ;  nor 
to  anyone  who  could  not  see  and  feel  the  whole  thing  from 
inside,  as  she  saw  and  felt  it.  And  even  if  it  were  not  so, 
if  the  environment  of  her  poorly  paid  activities  had  been 
trying  and  unsympathetic,  at  least  it  gave  seclusion,  her  own 
room  to  work  in,  her  free  garret  and  her  evening  and 
week-end  freedom.  But  what  was  she  going  to  do  with 
it? 

"  Tell  us  about  the  shoiv,  Miriam.  Cease  to  gaze  at  Jan's 
relations ;  sit  down,  light  a  cigarette." 

"  These  German  women  fascinate  me,"  said  Miriam 
swinging  round  from  the  mantelshelf ;  they  are  so  like  Jan 
and  so  utterly  different." 

"  Yes ;  Jan  is  Jan  and  they  are  Minna  and  Erica." 

Taking  a  cigarette  from  Mag's  case  Miriam  lit  it  at  the 
lamp.  Before  her  eyes  the  summer  unrolled  —  concerts 
with  Miss  Szigmondy,  going  in  the  cooling  day  in  her  new 
clothes,  with  a  thin  blouse,  from  daylight  into  electric 
light  and  music,  taking  off  the  zouave  inside  and  feeling 
cool  at  once,  the  electric  light  mixing  with  the  daylight, 
the  cool  darkness  to  walk  home  in  alone,  full  of  music 
that  would  last  on  into  the  next  day ;  Miss  Szigmondy's 
musical  at  homes,  evenings  at  Wimpole  Street,  week-ends 
in  the  flowery  suburbs  windows  and  doors  open,  cool  rooms, 
gardens   in   the   morning   and   evening,   week-ends   in   the 


i92  T  H  E    T  U  N  N  E  L 

country,  each   journey  like  the  beginning  of   the   summer 
holiday,    week-ends    in    town,    Sunday    afternoons    at    Mr. 
Hancock's   and    Miss    Szigmondy's  —  all    taking   her    away 
from   Kennett  Street.     All  these  things  yielded  their  best 
reality  in  this  room.     Glowing  brightly  in  the  distance  they 
made  this  room  like  the  centre  of  a  song.     But  a  week-end 
taken  up   was  a  week-end  missed   at  Kennett   Street.     It 
meant  missing  Slater's  on   Saturday  night,  the  week   end 
stretching  out  ahead  immensely  long,  the  long  evening  with 
the  girls,  its  lateness  protected  by  the  coming  Sunday,  wak- 
ing lazily   fresh   and  happy  and   easy-minded  on    Sunday 
morning,  late  breakfast,  the  cigarette  in  the  sunlit  window 
space,  its  wooden  sides  echoing  with  the  clamour  of  St. 
Pancras  bells,  the  three  voices  in  the  little   rooms,  irlan- 
disches  ragout,  the  hours  of  smoking  and  talking  out  and 
out  on  to  strange  promontories  where  everything  was  real 
all  the  time,  the  faint  gradual  coming  of  the  twilight,  the 
evening  untouched  by  the  presence  of  Monday,  no  hurry 
ahead,  no  social  performances,  no  leave-taking,  no  railway 
journey. 

"  Yes ;  John  is  Londonised ;  she  looks  German ;  her  voice 
suggests  the  whole  of  Germany ;  these  girls  are  Germany 
untouched,  strong,  cheerful,  musical,  tree-filled  Germany, 
without  any  doubts.  They've  got  Jan's  sense  of  humour 
without  her  cynicism." 

"Is  that  so,  Jan?" 

"  Yes  I  think  perhaps  it  is.  They  are  sweet  simple 
children."  Yes  sweet  —  but  maddening  too.  German 
women  were  so  sure  and  unsuspicious  and  practical  about 
life.  Jan  had  some  of  that  left.  But  she  was  English  too, 
more  transparent  and  thoughtful. 

"  The  show  !     The  show  !  " 

She  told  them  the  story  of  the  afternoon  in  a  glowing 
precis,  calling  up  the  splendours  upon  which  she  felt  their 


THE   TUNNEL  193 

imaginations  at  work,  describing  it  as  they  saw  it  and  as 
with  them,  in  retrospect,  she  saw  it  herself.  Her  descrip- 
tions drew  Mag's  face  towards  her,  glowing,  wrapt  and 
reverent.  Jan  sat  sewing  with  inturned  eyes  and  half  open, 
half-smiling  appreciative  face.  They  both  fastened  upon 
the  great  gold-framed  pictures,  asking  for  details.  Pres- 
ently they  were  making  plans  to  visit  the  Academy  and  fore- 
telling her  joy  in  seeing  them  again  and  identifying  them. 
She  had  not  thought  of  that;  certainly,  it  would  be  de- 
lightful ;  and  perhaps  seeing  the  pictures  in  freedom  and 
alone  she  might  find  them  wonderful. 

"  Why  do  you  say  their  wives  were  all  like  cats  ?  " 

"  They  were."  She  called  up  the  unhatted  figures  mov- 
ing about  among  the  guests  in  trailing  gowns, —  keeping 
something  up,  pretending  to  be  interested,  being  cattishly 
nice  to  the  visitors,  and  thinking  about  other  things  all  the 
time.  ...  I  can't  stand  them,  oh,  I  can't  stand  them.  .  .  . 
But  the  girls  would  not  have  seen  them  in  that  way;  they 
would  have  been  interested  in  them  and  their  dresses,  they 
would  have  admired  the  prettiness  of  some  of  them  and 
found  several  of  them  '  charming '  ...  if  Mag  were  an 
artist's  wife  she  would  behave  in  the  way  those  women 
behaved.  .  .  . 

"Were  they  all  sXikef "  that  was  half  sarcastic.  .  .  . 

"  Absolutely.     They  were  all  cats,  simply." 

"  Isn't  she  extraordinary?  " 

"  It's  the  cats  who  are  extraordinary.  Why  do  they  do 
it  girls!  Why  do  they  do  it?"  She  flushed  feeling  in- 
sincere. At  this  moment  she  felt  that  she  knew  that  Mag 
in  social  life,  would  conform  and  be  a  cat.  She  had  never 
thought  of  her  in  social  life;  here  in  poverty  and  freedom 
she  was  herself. 

"Do  phwatt  me  dear?" 

"  Oh  let  them  go.     It  makes  me  tired,  even  to  think  of 


194  THE   TUNNEL 

them.     The  thought  of  the  sound  of  their  voices  absolutely 
wears  me  out." 

"  I'm  not  laaazy  —  I'm  tie-erd  —  I  was  born  tie-erd." 

"  I  say  girls,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  two  write  ?  " 

"Write?" 

"Write  what?" 

"  Us  ?  " 

"  Just  as  we  are,  without  one  " — 

"Flea — I  know.  No.  Don't  be  silly.  I'm  perfectly 
serious.  I  mean  it.  Why  don't  you  write  things  —  both 
of  you.     I  thought  of  it  this  morning." 

Both  girls  sat  thoughtful.  It  was  evident  that  the  idea 
was  not  altogether  unfamiliar  to  them. 

"  Someone  kept  telling  me  the  other  day  I  ought  to  write 
and  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  if  anyone  ought  it's  you 
two.     Why  don't  you  Mag?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  Have  I  not  already  enough  on  my  fair 
young  shoulders?  " 

"  Jan,  why  don't  you?  " 

"  I,  my  dear?     For  a  most  excellent  reason." 

"What  reason?"  demanded  Miriam  in  a  shaking  voice. 
Her  heart  was  beating;  she  felt  that  a  personal  decision 
was  going  to  be  affected  by  Jan's  reason,  if  she  could  be  got 
to  express  it.  Jan  did  not  reply  instantly  and  she  found 
herself  hoping  that  nothing  more  would  be  said  about 
writing,  that  she  might  be  free  to  go  on  cherishing  the  idea, 
alone  and  unbiassed. 

"  I  do  not  write  "  said  Jan  slowly,  "  because  I  am  per- 
fectly convinced  that  anything  I  might  write  would  be 
medicore." 

Miriam's  heart  sank.  If  Jan,  with  all  her  German  know- 
ledge and  her  wit  and  experience  of  two  countries  felt  this, 


THE   TUNNEL  195 

it  was  probably  much  truer  of  herself.  To  think  about 
it,  to  dwell  upon  the  things  Mr.  Wilson  had  said  was  simply 
vanity.  He  had  said  anyone  could  learn  to  write.  But  he 
was  clever  and  ready  to  believe  her  clever  in  the  same  way, 
and  ready  to  take  ideas  from  him.  It  was  true  she  had 
material,  "  stuff  "  as  he  called  it,  but  she  would  not  have 
known  it,  if  she  had  not  been  told.  She  could  see  it  now, 
as  he  saw  it,  but  if  she  wrote  at  his  suggestion,  a  borrowed 
suggestion,  there  would  be  something  false  in  it,  clever 
and  false. 

"  Yes  —  I  think  Jan's  right,"  said  Mag  cheerfully. 
"  That  is  an  excellent  reason  and  the  true  one." 

It  was  true.  But  how  could  they  speak  so  lightly  and 
cheerfully  about  writing  .  .  .  the  thing  one  had  always 
wanted  to  do,  that  everyone  probably  secretly  wanted  to 
do,  and  the  girls  could  give  up  the  idea  without  a  sigh. 
They  were  right.  It  would  be  wrong  to  write  mediocre 
stuff.  Why  was  she  feeling  so  miserable?  Of  course  be- 
cause neither  of  them  had  suggested  that  she  should  write. 
They  knew  her  better  than  Mr.  Wilson  and  it  never  oc- 
curred to  them  that  she  should  write.  That  settled  it. 
But  something  moved  despairingly  in  the  void. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong  to  write  mediocre 
stuff  ?  "  she  asked  huskily. 

"  It  would  be  worse  than  wrong  child  —  it  would  be 
foolish;  it  wouldn't  sell." 


CHAPTER    XI 


EVERYTHING  was  ready  for  the  two  o'clock  patient. 
There  was  no  excuse  for  lingering  any  longer.  Half 
past  one.  Why  did  they  not  come  up?  On  her  way  to 
the  door  she  opened  the  corner  cupboard  and  stood  near 
the  open  door  hungry,  listening  for  footsteps  on  the  base- 
ment stairs,  dusting  and  ranging  the  neat  rows  of  bottles. 
At  the  end  of  five  minutes  she  went  guiltily  down.  If  he 
had  finished  his  lunch  they  would  wonder  why  she  had 
lingered  so  long.  If  she  had  hurried  down  as  soon  as  she 
could  no  one  would  have  known  that  she  hoped  to  have 
lunch  alone.  Now  because  she  had  waited  deliberately 
someone  would  read  her  guilt.  She  wished  she  were  one 
of  those  people  who  never  tried  to  avoid  anything.  The 
lunch-room  door  opened  and  closed  as  she  reached  the 
basement  stairs.  James's  cheerful  footsteps  clacked  along 
—  neat  high-heeled  shoes  —  towards  the  kitchen.  She  had 
taken  something  in.  They  were  still  at  lunch,  uncon- 
sciously, just  in  the  same  way.  No.  She  was  glad  she  was 
not  one  of  those  people  who  just  went  on  —  not  avoiding 
things.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Hancock  was  only  just  beginning  his  second  course. 
He  must  have  lingered  in  the  workshop.  .  .  .  He  was  help- 
ing himself  to  condiments;  Mr.  Orly  proffered  the  wooden 
pepper  mill;  "oh  —  thank  you";  he  screwed  it  with  an 
air  of  embarrassed  appreciativeness.  There  was  a  curious 
fresh  lively  air  of  embarrassment  in  the  room  making  a 

196 


THE   TUNNEL  197 

stirring  warmth  in  its  cellar-like  coolness.  Miriam  slipped 
quietly  into  her  place  hoping  she  was  not  an  interloper. 
At  any  rate  everyone  was  too  much  engrossed  to  ponder 
over  her  lateness.  Mr.  Orly  was  sitting  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table  and  his  serviette  crumpled  in  his  hands,  ready 
to  rise  from  the  table,  beaming  mildness  and  waiting.  Mrs. 
Orly  sat  waiting  and  smiling  with  her  elbows  on  the  table. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Orly  gently  as  Miriam  sat  down,  "here 
comes  the  clerical  staff." 

Miriam  beamed  and  began  her  soup.  It  was  James 
waiting  to-day  too,  with  her  singing  manner ;  a  happy  day. 

Mrs.  Orly  asked  a  question  in  her  happiest  voice.  They 
were  fixing  a  date.  .  .  .  They  were  going  ...  to  a  theatre 
.  .  .  together.  Her  astonished  mind  tried  to  make  them 
coalesce  .  .  .  she  saw  them  sitting  in  a  row,  two  different 
worlds  confronted  by  one  spectacle  .  .  .  there  was  not  a 
scrap  of  any  kind  of  performance  that  would  strike  them 
both  in  the  same  way. 

"Got  anything  on  on  Friday  Miss  Henderson?" 

The  sudden  question  startled  her.  Had  it  been  asked 
twice?  She  answered,  stammering,  in  amazed  conscious- 
ness of  what  was  to  follow  and  accepted  the  invitation  in  a 
flood  of  embarrassment.  Her  delight  and  horror  and  as- 
tonishment seemed  to  flow  all  over  the  table.  Desperately 
she  tried  to  gather  in  all  her  emotions  behind  an  easy  ap- 
preciative smile.  She  felt  astonishment  and  dismay  com- 
ing out  of  her  hair,  swelling  her  hands,  making  her  clumsy 
with  her  knife  and  fork.  Far  away,  beyond  her  grasp 
was  the  sense  she  felt  she  ought  to  have,  the  sense  of  be- 
longing; socially.  It  was  being  offered.  But  something 
or  someone  was  fighting  it.  Always,  everywhere  someone 
or  something  was  fighting  it. 

Mr.  Orly  had  given  a  ghostly  little  chuckle.  "  Like 
dining  at  restaurants?"  he  asked  kindly  and  swiftly. 


198  THE    TUNNEL 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  have." 

"  Then  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  initiating  you. 
Like  caviare?  " 

"  I  don't  even  know  what  it  is  "  said  Miriam  trying  to 
bring  gladness  into  her  voice. 

"Oh  —  this  is  great.  Caviare  to  the  million  eh?  —  oh, 
I  ought  not  to  have  put  it  like  that,  things  one  would  rather 
have  said  otherwise  —  no  offence  intended  —  none  taken 
I  hope  —  don't  yeh  know  really  ?  —  Sturgeon's  roe, 
y'know." 

"Oh,  I  know  I  don't  like  roe"  said  Miriam  gravely. 

"  Chalk  it  up.     Miss  Henderson  doesn't  like  roe." 

Miriam  flushed.  Pressing  back  through  her  anger  to 
what  had  preceded  she  found  inspiration. 

"  My  education  has  been  neglected." 

"  Quite  so,  but  now's  your  chance.  Seize  your  oppor- 
tunity;  carpe  diem.     See?" 

"  I  thought  it  was  caviare,  not  carp  "  said  Mr.  Hancock 
quietly. 

Was  it  a  rescue,  or  a  sacrifice  to  the  embarrassing  occa- 
sion? She  had  never  heard  him  jest  with  the  Orlys.  Mrs. 
Orly  chuckled  gleefully,  flashing  out  the  smile  that  Miriam 
loved.  It  took  every  line  from  her  care-fashioned  face  and 
lit  it  with  a  most  extraordinary  radiance.  She  had  smiled 
like  that  as  a  girl  in  response  to  the  jests  of  her  many 
brothers  .  .  .  her  eyes  were  sweet ;  there  was  a  perfect 
sweetness  in  her  somewhere. 

"  Bravo  Hancock,  that's  a  good  one.  ...  Ye  gods  and 
fishes  large  and  small  listen  to  that"  he  murmured  half 
turning  towards  the  door. 

The  clattering  of  boots  on  the  stone  stairs  was  followed 
by  the  rattling  of  the  loose  door  knob  and  the  splitting 
open  of  the  door.  Mr.  Leyton  shot  into  the  room  search- 
ing the  party  with  a  swift  glance  and  taking  his  place  in 


THE   TUNNEL  199 

the  circle  in  a  state  of  headlong  silent  volubility.  By  the 
way  he  attacked  his  lunch  it  was  clear  he  had  a  patient 
waiting  or  imminent.  It  occurred  to  Miriam  to  wonder 
why  he  did  not  always  arrange  his  appointments  round 
about  lunch-time  .  .  .  but  any  such  manoeuvre  would  be 
discovered  and  things  would  be  worse  than  ever.  Mr. 
Orly  watched  quietly  while  he  refused  Mrs.  Orly's  offer  to 
ring  for  soup,  devouring  bread  and  butter  until  she  should 
have  carved  for  him, —  and  then  extended  his  invitation 
to  his  son. 

"  Oh,  is  this  the  annual  ? "  asked  Mr.  Leyton  gruffy. 
"What's  the  show?" 

"  My  dear  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  inform  Mr.  Leyton 
of " 

"  Don't  be  silly  Ro "  said  Mrs.  Orly  trying  to  laugh 
"  we're  going  to  Hamlet  Ley." 

"  We  have  the  honour  of  begging  Mr.  Leyton's  company 
on  the  occasion  of  our  visit,  dinner  included,  to 

"  What's  the  date  ?  "  rapped  Mr.  Leyton  with  his  tumbler 
to  his  lips. 

"  The  date,  ascertained  as  suited  to  all  present  with  the 
exception  of  your  lordship  —  oh  my  God,  Ley  "  sighed  Mr. 
Orly  hiding  his  face  in  his  serviette,  his  huge  shoulders 
shaking. 

"  What  have  I  done  now  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Leyton,  gasping 
after  his  long  drink. 

"  Don't  be  so  silly  Ley.  You  haven^  answd  fathez 
queshun." 

"  How  can  I  answer  till  I'm  told  the  date?" 

"  Don't  be  silly,  you  can  come  any  evening." 

"  Friday  "  whispered  Miriam. 

"What?"  said  Mr.  Orly  softly,  emerging  from  his 
serviette,  "  a  traitor  in  the  camp?  " 


aoo  THE    TUNNEL 

"  Friday  is  it  ?  Well,  then  it's  pretty  certain  I  can't 
come." 

"  Don't  be  silly  Ley  —  you  haven't  any  engagements." 

"Haven't  I?  There's  a  sing-song  at  Headquarters  Fri- 
day." 

"  Enough,  my  dear,  enough,  press  him  no  more  "  said 
Mr.  Orly  rising.  "  Far  be  it  from  us  to  compete.  Going 
to  sing  Ley  or  to  song,  eh?  Never  mind  boy,  sorry  you 
can't  come  "  he  added,  sighing  gustily  as  he  left  the  room. 

"  You'll  be  able  to  come  Ley  won't  you  ? "  whispered 
Mrs.  Orly  impatiently  lingering. 

"If  you'd  only  let  me  know  the  date  beforehand  instead 
of  springing  it  on  me." 

"  Don't  be  si'y  Ley  it  vexes  Father  so.  You  needn't  go 
to  the  si'y  sing-song." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  get  out  of  it.  It's  rather  a  big 
function ;  as  an  officer  I  ought  to  be  there." 

"  Oh  never  mind ;  you'd  better  come." 

Mr.  Orly  called  from  the  stairs. 

"  All  right  darling "  she  said  in  anxious  cheerful  level 
tones  hurrying  to  the  door.  "  You  must  come  Ley,  you 
can  manage  somehow." 

Miriam  sat  feeling  wretchedly  about  in  her  mind.  Mr. 
Leyton  was  busily  finishing  his  lunch.  In  a  moment  Mr. 
Hancock  would  re-assert  himself  by  some  irrelevant  in- 
sincerity. She  found  courage  to  plunge  into  speech,  on 
the  subject  of  her  two  lessons  at  the  school.  Her  story 
strove  strangely  against  the  echoes  and  fell,  impeded.  It 
was  an  attempt  to  create  a  quiet  diversion.  ...  It  should 
have  been  done  violently  .  .  .  how  many  times  had  she 
seen  it  done,  the  speaker  violently  pushing  off  what  had 
gone  before  and  protruding  his  diversion,  in  brisk  animated 
deliberately  detached  tones.  But  it  was  never  really  any 
good.     There  was  always  a  break  and  a  wound,  something 


THE   TUNNEL  201 

left  unhealed,  something  standing  unlearned  .  .  .  some- 
thing that  can  only  grow  clear  in  silence.  .  .  . 

"  You'll  never  learn  cycling  like  that "  said  Mr.  Leyton 
with  the  superior  chuckle  of  the  owner  of  a  secret,  as  he 
snatched  up  a  biscuit  and  made  off.  She  clung  fearfully 
to  his  cheerful  harassed  departing  form.  There  was  noth- 
ing left  now  in  the  room  but  the  echoes.  Mr.  Hancock  sat 
munching  his  bircuits  and  cheese  with  a  look  of  determined 
steely  preoccupation  in  his  eyes  that  were  not  raised  above 
the  level  of  the  spread  of  disarray  along  the  table;  but  she 
could  hear  the  busy  circulation  of  his  thoughts.  If  now 
she  could  endure  for  a  moment.  But  her  mind  flung 
hither  and  thither  seeking  with  a  loathed  servility  some 
alien  neutral  topic.  She  knew  anything  she  might  say  with 
the  consciousness  of  his  thoughts  in  her  mind  would  be 
resented  and  slain.  To  get  up  and  go  quietly  away  with 
some  murmured  remark  about  her  work  would  be  to  leave 
him  with  his  judgment  upon  her.  What  he  wanted  was 
to  give  her  an  instruction  about  something  in  a  detached 
professional  voice  and  get  rid  of  her,  believing  that  she  had 
gone  unknowing,  and  remaining  in  his  circle  of  reasonable 
thoughts.  She  hit  out  with  all  her  force,  coming  against 
the  buttress  of  silent  angry  forehead  with  random  speech. 

"  I  can't  believe  that  it's  less  than  two  months  to  the 
longest  day." 

"  Time  flies  "  responded  Mr.  Hancock  grimly.  She  re- 
coiled exhausted  by  her  effort  and  quailed  under  the  pang 
in  the  midday  gaslit  room  of  realisation  of  the  mean- 
ing of  her  words.  Her  eye  swept  over  the  grey-clad  form 
and  the  blunted  features  seeking  some  power  that  would 
stay  the  inexorable  consumption  of  the  bright  passing  days. 

"  '  Tempus  fugit '  I  suppose  one  ought  to  say  "  he  said 
with  a  little  laugh  getting  up. 

"  Oui,"  said  Miriam  angrily,  "  le  temps  s'envole ;  die 
Zeit  vergeht,  in  other  words." 


CHAPTER    XII 


RUNNING  upstairs  to  Mr.  Hancock's  room  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  his  arrival  in  the  morning  Miriam 
found  herself  wishing  that  she  lived  altogether  at  Wimpole 
Street.  They  were  all  so  kind.  Life  would  be  simplified 
if  she  could  throw  in  her  lot  with  them.  Coming  in  to 
breakfast  after  the  lesson  had  been  a  sort  of  home-coming. 
There  were  pleasant  noises  about  the  house ;  the  family 
shouted  carelessly  to  each  other  on  the  stairs,  the  school- 
boy slid  down  the  banisters ;  the  usual  subdued  manner 
of  the  servants  was  modified  by  an  air  of  being  a  possession 
of  the  house  and  liking  it.  They  rushed  quietly  and  happily 
about.  The  very  aroma  of  the  coffee  seemed  tranquilly 
to  feed  one.  At  breakfast  everyone  was  cheerful  and  kind. 
It  was  home.  They  were  so  sympathetic  and  amused  over 
the  adventure.  The  meeting  in  the  freshness  of  the  morn- 
ing made  everything  easier  to  handle.  It  gave  the  morn- 
ing a  beginning  and  shed  its  brightness  over  the  professional 
hush  that  fell  upon  the  house  at  nine  o'clock.  It  would 
make  lunch-time  more  easy ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
if  asked,  she  would  join  the  family  party  again. 

While  Mr.  Hancock  was  looking  through  his  letters  she 
elaborately  suppressed  a  yawn. 

"  How  did  you  get  on  ?  "  he  asked,  with  prompt  amuse- 
ment, his  eyes  on  a  letter. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  get  off ;  that  was  just  it"  murmured 
Miriam  quietly,  enjoying  her  jest ;  how  strong  she  felt 
after  her  good  breakfast.  .  .  . 

202 


THE   TUNNEL  203 

He  turned  an  amused  enquiring  face  and  they  both 
laughed. 

Everything  in  the  room  was  ready  for  the  day's  work. 
She  polished  the  already  bright  set  of  forceps  with  a 
luxurious  sense  of  leisure. 

"  It  was  perfectly  awful.  When  we  got  to  the  Inner 
Circle  Mr.  Leyton  simply  put  me  on  the  bicycle  and  sent 
me  off.  He  rode  round  the  other  way  and  I  had  to  go  on 
and  on.     He  scorched  about  and  kept  passing  me." 

Mr.  Hancock  waited  smiling  for  the  more  that  stood  in 
her  struggling  excited  voice. 

"  There  were  people  going  round  on  horse-back  and  a 
few  other  people  on  bicycles." 

"  I  expect  they  all  gave  you  a  pretty  wide  berth." 

"  They  did;  except  one  awful  man,  an  old  gentleman 
sailing  along  looking  at  nothing." 

"What  happened?"  laughed   Mr.   Hancock  delightedly. 

"  It  was  awful,  I  was  most  fearfully  rude  —  I  shouted 
'  Get  out  of  the  way '  and  /  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
road;  but  miles  off,  only  I  knew  I  couldn't  get  back  I  had 
forgotten  how  to  steer." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  He  swept  round  me  looking  very  frightened  and  dis- 
turbed." 

"Hadn't  you  a  bell?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  meant  sliding  my  hand  along.  I  daren't 
do  that ;  nobody  seemed  to  want  it,  they  all  glided  about ; 
they  were  really  awfully  nice.  I  had  to  go  on  because  I 
couldn't  get  off.  I  can  wobble  along,  but  I  can't  mount 
or  dismount.     I  was  never  so  frightened  in  my  life." 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  had  a  very  drastic  time." 

"  I  fell  off  in  the  end  I  was  so  dead  beat." 

"  But  this  is  altogether  too  drastic.  Where  was  Ley- 
ton?" 


204  T  H  E   T  U  N  N  E  L 

"  Rushing  round  and  round  meeting  me  and  then  over- 
taking me,  startling  me  out  of  my  wits  by  ringing  behind 
for  me  to  get  to  the  side.  Nobody  else  did  that.  It  was 
awfully  kind.     I   went  tacking  about   from   side  to  side." 

"  I'm  afraid  you've  had  a  very  drastic  time.  I  think 
you'd  better  come  up  this  evening  and  learn  getting  on  and 
off  on  the  lawn ;  that's  the  way  to  do  it." 

"  Oh  "  said  Miriam  gratefully ;  "  but  I  have  no  machine. 
Mrs.  Orly  lent  me  hers." 

"  I  daresay  we  can  hire  a  machine." 


CHAPTER   XIII 


MIRIAM  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  the  girl 
was  a  dental  secretary.  She  swept  about  among 
Miss  Szigmondy's  guests  in  a  long  Liberty  dress,  her  hands 
holding  her  long  scarf  about  her  person  as  if  she  were 
waiting  for  a  clear  space  to  leap  or  run,  staying  nowhere, 
talking  here  and  there  with  the  assurance  of  a  successful 
society  woman,  laughing  and  jesting,  swiftly  talking  down 
the  group  she  was  with  and  passing  on  with  a  shouted 
remark  about  herself  as  she  had  done  in  the  library  on  the 
night  of  Lord  Kelvin's  lecture.  ..."  I'm  tired  of  being 
good ;  I'm  going  to  try  being  naughty  for  a  change."  Mr. 
Hancock  had  stood  planted  before  her  in  laughing  admira- 
tion, waiting  for  the  next  thing  that  she  might  say.  How 
could  he  of  all  men  in  the  world  be  taken  out  of  himself 
by  an  effective  trick?  He  had  laughed  more  spontaneously 
than  Miriam  had  ever  seen  him  do.  What  zvas  this  effective 
thing?  An  appearance  of  animation.  That  it  seemed, 
could  make  any  man,  even  Mr.  Hancock,  if  it  were  free 
from  any  suggestion  of  loudness  or  vulgarity,  stand  gaping 
and  disarmed.  Why  had  he  volunteered  the  information 
that  she  was  eighteen  and  secretary  to  his  friend  in  Harley 
Street.  "  You  don't  seem  very  keen  " ;  that  was  her  voice 
from  the  other  end  of  the  room ;  using  the  new  smart  word 
with  a  delicate  emphasis,  pretending  interest  in  something, 
meaning  nothing  at  all.  She  was  a  middle-aged  woman, 
she  would  never  be  older  than   she  was  now.     She   saw 

205 


206  THE    TUNNEL 

nothing  and  no  one,  nor  ever  would.  In  all  her  life  she 
would  never  be  arrested  by  anything.  Nice  kind  people 
would  call  her  "  a  charming  girl."  ..."  Charming  girls  " 
were  taught  to  behave  effectively  and  lived  in  a  brilliant 
death,  dealing  death  all  round  them.  Nothing  could  live  in 
their  presence.  No  natural  beauty,  no  spectacle  of  art,  no 
thought,  no  music.  They  were  uneasy  in  the  presence  of 
these  things,  because  their  presence  meant  cessation  of 
"charming"  behaviour  —  except  at  such  moments  as  they 
could  use  the  occasion  to  decorate  themselves.  They  had 
no  souls.  Yet  in  social  life  nothing  seemed  to  possess  any 
power  but  their  surface  animation. 

There  was  real  power  in  that  other  woman.  Her  strong 
young  comeliness  was  good,  known  to  be  good.  It  was 
strange  that  a  student  of  music  should  be  known  for  her 
work  among  the  poor.  The  serene  large  outlines  of  her 
form  gave  out  light  in  the  room;  and  the  light  on  her 
white  brow  unconscious  above  her  deliberately  kind  face 
was  the  loveliest  thing  to  be  seen;  the  deliberately  kind 
face  spoiled  it,  and  would  presently  change  it ;  unless  some 
great  vision  came  to  her  it  would  grow  furrowed  over  "  the 
housing  problem  "  and  the  face  would  dry  up,  its  white 
life  cut  off  at  a  source;  at  present  she  was  at  the  source; 
one  could  tell  her  anything.  Mr.  Hancock  recognised  her 
goodness,  spoke  of  her  with  admiration  and  respect.  What 
was  she  doing  here,  among  all  these  worldly  musicians? 
She  would  never  be  a  musician,  never  a  first-class  musician. 
Then  she  had  ambition.  She  was  poor.  Someone  was 
helping  her  .  .  .  Miss  Szigmondy!  Why?  She  must 
know  she  would  never  make  a  musician.  Miriam  cowered 
in  her  corner.  The  good  woman  was  actually  going  to 
sing  before  all  these  celebrities.  What  a  fine  great  free 
voice.  ..."  When    shall    we    meet  —  refined    and     free, 


THE   TUNNEL  207 

amongst  the  moorland  brack-en  .  .  ."  if  Mr.  Hancock  could 
have  heard  her  sing  that,  surely  his  heart  must  have  gone 
out  to  her?  She  knew,  to  her  inmost  being,  what  that 
meant.  She  longed  for  cleansing  fires,  even  she  with  her 
radiant  forehead ;  her  soul  flew  out  along  the  sustained 
notes  towards  its  vision,  her  dark  eyes  were  set  upon  it 
as  she  sang,  the  clear  tones  of  her  voice  called  to  the  com- 
panion of  her  soul  for  the  best  that  was  in  him.  She  was 
the  soul  of  truth,  countering  no  cost.  She  would  attain  her 
vision,  though  the  earthly  companion  she  longed  for  might 
pass  her  by.  The  pure  beauty  of  the  moorland  would  re- 
main for  her,  would  set  itself  along  the  shores  of  her  life 
forever.  .  .  . 

But  she  could  not  sing.  It  was  the  worst  kind  of  Eng- 
lish singing,  all  volume  and  emphasis  and  pressure.  Was 
there  that  in  her  goodness  too  .  .  .  deliberate  kindness  to 
everybody.  Was  that  a  method  —  just  a  social  method? 
She  was  one  of  those  people  about  whom  it  would  be  said 
that  she  never  spoke  ill  of  anyone.  But  was  not  indis- 
criminate deliberate  conscious  goodness  to  everybody  an 
insult  to  humanity  ?  People  who  were  like  that  never  knew 
the  difference  between  one  person  and  another.  '  Philan- 
thropic '  people  were  never  sympathetic.  They  pitied. 
Pity  was  not  sympathy.  It  was  a  denial  of  something.  It 
assumed  that  life  was  pitiful.  Yet  her  clear  eyes  would  see 
through  anything,  any  evil  thing  to  the  human  being  be- 
hind. But  she  knew  it,  and  practised  it  like  a  doctor.  She 
had  never  been  amazed  by  the  fact  that  there  were  any 
human  beings  at  all  .  .  .  and  with  all  her  goodness  she  had 
plans  and  ambitions.  She  wanted  to  be  a  singer  —  and 
she  was  thinking  about  somebody.  Men  were  dazzled  by 
the  worldly  little  secretary  and  they  reverenced  the  singer 
and  her  kind.     Irreligious  men  would  respect  religion  for 


208  THE   TUNNEL 

her  sake  —  and  would  wish,  thinking  of  her,  to  live  in  a 
particular  kind  of  way ;  but  she  would  never  lead  a  man  to 
religion  because  she  had  no  thoughts  and  no  ideas. 

The  surprise  of  finding  these  two  women  here  and  the 
pain  of  observing  them  was  a  just  reward  for  having  come 
to  Miss  Szigmondy's  At  Home  without  a  real  impulse  — 
just  to  see  the  musicians  and  to  be  in  the  same  room  with 
them.  All  that  remained  was  to  write  to  someone  about 
them  by  name.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  mention  their 
names.  There  was  no  wonder  about  them.  They  were 
all  fat.  Not  one  of  them  was  an  artist  and  they  all  hated 
each  other.  It  was  like  a  ballad  concert.  They  all  sang 
in  the  English  way.  They  were  not  in  the  least  like  the 
instrumentalists;  or  St.  James's  Hall  Saturday  afternoon 
audiences,  not  that  kind  of  "queer  soft  lot";  not  shadowy 
grey  or  dead  white  or  with  that  curious  transparent  look ; 
they  all  looked  ruddy  or  pink,  and  sleek;  they  had  the 
same  sort  of  kindly  commonsense  as  Harriett's  Lord  and 
Lady  Bollingdon  .  .  .  perhaps  to  keep  a  voice  going  it  was 
necessary  to  be  fat. 


CHAPTER   XIV 


'  T  T  was  simply  heavenly  going  off  —  all  standing  in  the 
J_  hall  in  evening  dress  while  the  servants  blew  for 
hansoms.  I  wore  my  bridesmaid's  dress  with  a  piece  of 
tulle  arranged  round  the  top  of  the  bodice.  It  was  wrong 
at  the  back  so  I  had  to  sit  very  carefully  the  whole  evening 
to  prevent  it  going  up  like  a  muffler,  but  never  mind;  it 
was  heavenly  I  tell  you.  We  bowled  off  down  through 
the  west-end  in  three  hansoms  one  behind  the  other,  in 
the  dark.  You  know  the  gleam  and  shine  inside  a  hansom 
sprinting  along  a  dark  empty  street  where  the  lamps  are 
few  and  dim;  (see  'The  Organist's  Daughter')  and  then 
came  the  bright  streets  all  alight  and  full  of  dinner  and 
theatre  people  in  evening  dress  in  hansoms  and  you  kept 
getting  wedged  in  between  other  hanjsoms  with  people 
talking  and  laughing  all  round  you ;  and  it  took  about  ten 
minutes  to  get  from  the  end  of  Regent  Street  across  to 
the  other  side  of  Piccadilly  where  we  dined  in  wicked 
Rupert  Street.  Just  as  the  caviare  was  brought  in  we  heard 
that  the  Prince  of  Wales  had  won  the  Derby.  Shakespeare 
is  extraordinary.  I  had  no  idea  Hamlet  was  so  full  of 
quotations." 

Miriam  flushed  heavily  as  the  last  words  ran  automatically 
from  her  pen.  The  sense  of  the  richly  moving  picture  that 
had  filled  her  all  the  morning  and  now  kept  her  sitting 
happily  under  the  hot  roof  at  her  small  dusty  table  in  the 
full  breadth  of  Saturday  afternoon  would  be  gone  if  she 

209 


210  THE   TUNNEL 

left  that  sentence.  She  felt  a  curious  painful  shock  at  the 
tips  of  her  ringers  as  she  re-read  it;  a  current  singing  within 
her  was  driven  back  by  it.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Orly's  face  had  been 
all  alive  and  alight  when  she  had  leant  forward  across 
Mr.  Hancock  and  said  the  words  that  had  seemed  so  mean- 
ingless and  irritating.  Perhaps  she  too  had  felt  something 
she  wanted  to  express  and  had  lost  it  at  that  moment.  Cer- 
tainly both  she  and  Mr.  Orly  would  feel  the  beauty  of 
Shakespeare.  But  the  words  had  shattered  the  spell  of 
Shakespeare  and  writing  them  down  like  that  was  spoiling 
the  description  of  the  evening,  though  Harriett  would  not 
think  so. 

But  anyhow  the  letter  would  not  do  for  Harriett  —  even 
if  words  could  be  found  to  express  "  Shakespeare."  That 
would  not  interest  Harriett.  She  would  think  the  effort 
funny  and  Miriamish  but  it  would  not  mean  anything  to 
her.  She  had  been  to  Shakespeare  because  she  adored  Ellen 
Terry  and  put  up  with  Irving  for  her  sake.  .  .  .  People 
in  London  seemed  to  think  that  Irving  was  just  as  great 
as  Ellen  Terry.  .  .  .  Perhaps  now  Irving  would  seem 
different.  Perhaps  Irving  was  great.  ...  I  will  go  and 
hear  Irving  in  Shakespeare  ...  no  money  and  no  theatres 
except  with  other  people.  .  .  .  The  rest  of  the  letter  would 
simply  hurt  Harriett,  because  it  would  seem  like  a  re- 
flection on  theatres  with  her.  Theatres  with  her  had 
had  a  magic  that  last  night  could  not  touch  .  .  .  sitting 
in  the  front  row  of  the  pit,  safely  in  after  the  long  wait, 
the  walls  of  the  theatre  going  up,  softly  lit  buff  and  gold, 
fluted  and  decorated  and  bulging  with  red  curtained  boxes, 
the  clear  view  across  the  empty  stalls  of  the  dim  height 
of  fringed  curtain  hanging  in  long  straight  folds,  the  cer- 
tainty that  Harriett  shared  the  sense  of  the  theatre,  that 
for  her  too  when  the  orchestra  began  the  great  motion- 
less curtain  shut  them  in  in  a  life  where  everything  else  in 


THE   TUNNEL  211 

the  world  faded  away  and  was  forgotten,  the  sight  of  the  per- 
fection of  happiness  on  Harriet's  little  buff-shadowed  face, 
the  sudden  running  ripple,  from  side  to  side,  of  the  igniting 
footlights  .  .  .  the  smoothly  clicking  rustle  of  the  with- 
drawing curtain  .  .  .  the  magic  square  of  the  lit  scene  .  .  . 
the  daily  growth  of  the  charm  of  these  things  during  that 
week  when  they  had  gone  to  a  theatre  every  night,  so  that  on 
looking  back  the  being  in  the  theatre  with  the  certainty  of 
the  moving  changing  scenes  ahead  was  clearer  than  either 
of  the  plays  they  had  seen.  .  .  .  She  sat  staring  through  the 
open  lattice.  .  .  .  The  sound  of  the  violin  from  the  house 
down  the  street  that  had  been  a  half-heard  obligato  to  her 
vision  of  last  night  came  in  drearily,  filling  the  space  whence 
the  vision  had  departed,  with  uneasy  questions.  She  turned 
to  her  letter  to  recapture  the  impulse  with  which  she  had 
sat  down.  ...  If  she  turned  it  into  a  letter  to  Eve,  all  the 
description  of  the  evening  would  have  to  be  changed ;  Eve 
knew  all  about  grandeurs,  with  the  Greens  large  country 
house  and  their  shooting-boxes  and  visits  to  London  hotels ; 
the  bright  glories  must  go  —  overwhelming  and  unex- 
pressed. Why  did  that  make  one  so  sad  ?  Was  it  because  it 
suggested  that  one  cared  more  for  the  gay  circumstances 
than  for  the  thing  seen  ?  What  was  it  they  had  seen  ?  Why 
had  they  gone?  What  was  Shakespeare?  Her  vision  re- 
turned to  her  as  she  brooded  on  this  fresh  problem.  The 
whole  scene  of  the  theatre  was  round  her  once  more ;  she 
was  sitting  in  the  half  darkness  gazing  at  the  stage.  What 
had  it  been  for  her  ?  What  was  it  that  came  from  the  stage  ? 
Something  —  real  ...  to  say  that  drove  it  away.  She 
looked  again  and  it  clustered  once  more,  alive.  The  gay 
flood  of  the  streets,  the  social  excitements  and  embarrass- 
ments of  the  evening  were  a  conflagration ;  circling  about 
the  clear  bright  kernel  of  moving  lights  and  figures  on  the 
stage.     She   gazed    at   the    bright    stage.     Moments    came 


ai2  THE   TUNNEL 

sharply  up,  grouped  figures,  spoken  words.     She  held  them, 
her  contemplation  aglow  with  the  certainty  that  something 
was  there  that  set  her  alight  with  love,  making  her  whole 
in  the  midst  of  her  uncertainty  and  ignorance.     Words  and 
phrases  came,  a  sentence  here  and  there  that  had  suddenly 
shaped  and  deepened  a  scene.     Perhaps  it  was  only  in  see- 
ing Shakespeare  acted  that  one  could  appreciate  him?     But 
it  was  not  the  acting.     No  one  could  act.     They  all  just 
missed  it.     It  was  all  very  well  for  Mag  to  laugh.     They 
did  just  miss  it.  .  ,  ,  "Why,  my  child?     In  what  way?" 
"  They  act  at  the  audience,  they  take  their  cues  too  quickly 
and  have  their  emotions  too  abruptly ;  and  from  outside  not 
inside."     "  But  if  they  felt  it  at  all,  all  the  time,  they  would 
go  mad  or  die."     "  No,  they  would  not.     But  even  if  they 
did  not  feel  it,  if  they  looked,  it  would  be  enough.     They 
don't  look  at  the  thing  they  are  doing."     It  was  not  the 
acting.     Nor  the  play.     The  characters  of  the  story  were  al- 
ways tiresome.     The  ideas,  the  wonderful  quotations  if  you 
looked  closely  at  them  were  everyone's  ideas ;  things  that  ev- 
erybody knew.     To  read  Shakespeare  carefully  all  through 
would  only  be  to  find  all  the  general  things  somewhere  or 
other.     But  that  did  not  matter.     Being  ignorant  of  him  and 
of    history    did    not   matter,   as   long   as   you    heard    him. 
Poetry!     The  poetry  of   Shakespeare  .  .  .   ?     Primers  of 
literature  told   one   that.     It   did   not   explain   the   charm. 
Just  the  sound.     Music.     Like  Beethoven.     Bad  acting  can- 
not spoil  Shakespeare.     Bad  playing  cannot  destroy  Bee- 
thoven.    It  was  the  sound  of  Shakespeare  that  made  the 
scenes  real  —  that  made  Winter's  Tale,  so  long  ago  and  so 
bewildering,   remain  in  beauty.  ..."  Dear   Eve,    Shakes- 
peare is  a  sound  .  .  ."     She  tore  up  the  letter.     The  next 
time  she  wrote  to  Eve  she  must   remember  to   say  that. 
The  garret  was  stifling.     Away  from  the  brilliant  window 
the  room  was  just  as  hot;  the  close  thick  smell  of  dust  sick- 


THE   TUNNEL  213 

ened  her.  She  came  back  to  the  table,  sitting  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  open.  The  afternoon  had  been  wasted  try- 
ing to  express  her  evening  and  nothing  had  been  expressed. 
The  thought  of  last  night  was  painful  now.  She  had  spoiled 
it  in  some  way.  Her  heart  beat  heavily  in  the  stifling  room. 
Her  head  ached  and  her  eyes  were  tired.  She  was  too  tired 
to  walk ;  and  there  was  no  money ;  barely  enough  for  next 
week's  A.B.C.  suppers.  There  was  no  comfort.  It  was 
May  ...  in  a  stuffy  dusty  room.  May.  Her  face  quiv- 
ered and  her  head  sank  upon  the  hot  table. 


CHAPTER    XV 


NEARLY  all  the  roses  were  half-opened  buds ;  firm 
and  stiff.  Larger  ones  put  in  here  and  there  gave 
the  effect  of  mass.  Closest  contemplation  enhanced  the 
beauty  of  the  whole.  Each  rose  was  perfect.  The  radiant 
mass  was  lovely  throughout.  The  body  of  the  basket 
curved  firmly  away  to  its  slender  hidden  base;  the  smooth 
sweep  of  the  rim  and  the  delicate  high  arch  of  the  handle 
held  the  roses  perfectly  framed.  It  was  a  perfect  gift.  .  .  . 
Tt  had  been  quite  enough  to  have  the  opportunity  of  doing 
little  things  for  Mrs.  Berwick  .  .  .  the  surprise  of  the 
roses.  The  surprise  of  them.  Roses,  roses,  roses  ...  all 
the  morning  they  had  stood,  making  the  morning's  work 
happy ;  visible  all  over  the  room.  Everyone  in  the  house 
had  had  the  beautiful  shock  of  them.  And  they  were  still 
as  they  had  been  when  they  had  been  gathered  in  the  dew. 
If  they  were  in  water  by  the  end  of  the  afternoon  the  buds 
would  revive  and  expand  .  .  .  even  after  the  hours  in  the 
Lyceum.  If  they  were  thrown  now  into  the  waste-paper 
basket  it  would  not  matter.  They  would  go  on  being  per- 
fect—  to  the  end  of  life.  "And  as  long;  as  my  heart  is 
bea-ting ;  as  long ;  as  my  eyes ;  have ;  tears." 

Winthrop  came  up  punctually  at  one  o'clock  as  he  had 
promised.  "  It  would  save  you  comin'  down  if  I  was  to 
ph-come  up."  It  would  go  on  then.  He  had  thought  about 
it  and  meant  to  do  it.     She  opened  the  cash  box  quickly  and 

214 


THE   TUNNEL  215 

deftly  in  her  gratitude  and  handed  him  his  four  sovereigns 
and  the  money  for  the  second  mechanic  and  the  apprentices. 
He  waited  gently  while  she  counted  it  out.     Next  Saturday 

she  would  have  it  ready  for  him.     "  Thank  you  Miss ; 

ph  —  ph  Good  afternoon  "  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Good  after- 
noon Mr.  Winthrop  "  she  responded  busily  with  all  her  heart 
and  listened  as  he  clattered  away  downstairs.  A  load  was 
lifted  from  Saturday  mornings,  for  good.  No  more  going 
down  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  row  of  eyes  and  get  herself 
along  the  bench,  depositing  the  various  sums.  Nothing  in 
future  but  the  letters,  the  overhauling  of  Mr.  Hancock's 
empty  surgery,  the  easy  lunch  with  Mr.  Leyton,  and  the 
week-end.  She  entered  the  sums  in  the  petty  cash  book. 
There  was  that.  They  would  always  be  that  week  after 
week.  But  to-day  the  worrying  challenge  of  is  disappeared 
in  the  joy  of  the  last  entry.  "  Self  "  she  wrote,  the  light 
across  the  outspread  prospect  of  her  life  steadying  and 
deepening  as  she  wrote,  "  one  pound,  five."  The  five,  writ- 
ten down,  sent  a  thrill  from  the  contemplated  page.  Taking 
the  customary  sovereign  from  the  cash-box  she  placed  it 
carefully  in  the  middle  pocket  of  her  purse  and  closed  the 
clip.  The  five  shillings  she  distributed  about  the  side-pock- 
ets; half  a  crown,  a  shilling,  two  sixpenny  bits  and  six  cop- 
pers. The  purse  was  full  of  money.  By  September  she 
would  have  about  four  pounds  five  in  hand  and  two  pounds 
ten  of  her  month's  holiday  money  still  unspent ;  six  pounds 
fifteen ;  she  could  go  to  a  matinee  every  week  and  still  have 
about  half  the  four  pounds  five ;  about  four  pounds  fifteen 
altogether ;  enough  to  hire  a  bicycle  for  the  month  and  buy 
some  summer  blouses  for  the  holiday.  .  .  .  She  pocketed 
the  heavy  purse.  Why  was  there  always  a  feeling  of  guilt 
about  a  salary?  It  was  the  same  every  week.  The  life  at 
Wimpole  Street  was  so  full  and  so  interesting;  she  was 
learning  so  much  and  seeing  so  much      Salary  was  out  of 


216  THE    TUNNEL 

place  —  a  payment  for  leading  a  glorious  life,  naif  of  which 
was  entirely  her  own.  The  extra  five  shillings  was  a  present 
from  the  Orlys  and  Mr.  Hancock.  She  could  manage  on 
the  pound.  The  new  sum  was  wealth,  superfluity.  They 
would  expect  more  of  her  in  future.  Surely  it  would  be 
possible  to  give  more ;  with  so  much  money  ;  to  find  the  spirit 
to  come  punctually  at  nine ;  always  to  have  everything  in 
complete  readiness  in  all  three  surgeries  ;  to  keep  all  the  books 
up  to  date.  .  .  .  But  they  would  not  have  given  her  the  rise 
at  the  end  of  five  months  if  they  had  not  felt  she  was  worth 
it.  .  .  .  It  would  make  all  the  difference  to  the  summer. 
Hopefully  she  took  a  loose  sheet  of  paper  and  made  two 
lists  of  the  four  pages  of  the  week's  entries  —  dissecting 
them  under  the  heads  of  workshop  and  surgery.  About 
fifteen  pounds  had  been  spent.  Again  and  again  with  heat- 
ing head  she  added  her  pages  of  small  sums,  getting  each 
time  slightly  different  results,  until  at  last  they  balanced 
with  the  dissected  lists  —  twice  in  succession.  The  hall 
clock  struck  one  and  Mr.  Leyton  came  downstairs  rattling 
and  rattled  into  her  room.  "  How  d'you  like  this  get  up?  " 
The  general  effect  of  the  blue  grey  uniform  and  brown 
leather  belt  and  bandolier  was  pleasing  "  Oh,  jolly  "  she  said 
abstractedly  to  his  waiting  figure.  He  clattered  downstairs 
to  lunch.  Everybody  had  outside  interests.  Mr.  Hancock 
would  be  on  the  Broads  by  now.  Her  afternoon  beckoned, 
easy  with  the  superfluity  of  money.  Anxiously  she  counted 
over  the  balance  in  the  cash  box.  It  was  two  and  nine- 
pence  short.  Damnation.  Damnation.  "  Put  it  down  to 
stamps  —  or  miscellanea ;  not  accounted  for."  She  looked 
back  through  her  entries.  Stamps,  one  pound,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  week.  Stamps,  ten  shillings  yesterday.  It 
could  not  be  that.  It  was  some  carlessness  —  something 
not  entered  —  or  a  miscalculation.  Something  she  had  paid 
out  to  the  workshop  in  the  middle  of  a  rush  and  forgotten 


THE   TUNNEL  217 

to  put  down.  She  went  back  through  her  entries  one  by 
one  with  flaring  cheeks ;  recovering  the  history  of  the  week 
and  recalling  incidents.  Nothing  came  that  would  account 
for  the  discrepancy.  It  was  simply  a  mistake.  Something 
had  been  put  down  wrong.  The  money  had  been  spent. 
But  was  it  a  workshop  or  a  surgery  expense  that  had  gone 
wrong?  "  Postage  etc.:  two  and  nine,"  would  make  it  all 
right  —  but  the  account  would  not  be  right.  Either  the 
workshop  or  the  surgery  account  must  suffer.  It  would 
be  another  of  those  little  inaccurate  spots  that  came  every 
few  weeks ;  that  she  would  always  have  to  remember  .  .  . 
her  mind  toiled,  goaded  and  hot.  .  .  .  Mr.  Orly  had  bor- 
rowed five  pounds  to  buy  tools  at  Buck  and  Hickman's 
and  come  back  with  the  money  spent  and  some  of  the  tools 
to  be  handed  to  the  practice.  Perhaps  it  was  in  balancing 
that  up  that  the  mistake  had  occurred  ...  or  the  electric 
lamp  account;  some  for  the  house,  some  for  the  practice 
and  some  for  the  workshop.  Thoroughly  miserable  she 
made  a  provisional  entry  of  the  sum  against  surgery  in  pen- 
cil and  left  the  account  unbalanced.  Perhaps  on  Monday 
it  would  come  right.  When  the  ledgers  were  all  in  place 
and  the  safe  and  drawers  locked  she  stretched  her  limbs  and 
forced  away  her  misery.  The  roses  reproached  her,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  They  understood,  in  detail,  as  clearly 
as  she  did,  all  the  difficulties.  They  took  her  part.  Stand- 
ing there  waiting,  they  too  felt  that  there  was  nothing  now 
but  lunch  and  Irving. 


With  the  basket  of  roses  over  her  arm  she  walked  as 
rapidly  as  possible  down  to  Oxford  Circus  taking  the  first 
turning  out  of  Wimpole  Street  to  hurry  the  more  secretly 
and  conveniently.  A  'bus  took  her  to  Charing  Cross  where 
she  jumped  off  as  soon  as  it  began  pulling  up  and  ran 


218  THE   TUNNEL 

down  the  Strand.  As  soon  as  she  felt  herself  flying  to- 
wards her  bourne  the  fears  that  last  week's  magic  would 
have  disappeared  left  her  altogether.  Last  week  had  been 
wonderful,  an  adventure  her  first  deliberate  piece  of  daring 
in  London.  Inside  the  theatre  the  scruples  and  the  daring 
had  been  forgotten.  To-day  again  everything  would  be 
forgotten,  everything;  to-day's  happiness  was  more  secure; 
it  would  not  mean  going  almost  foodless  over  the  week- 
end and  without  an  egg  for  supper  all  next  week ;  there 
was  no  anticipation  of  disapproving  eyes  in  the  theatre 
this  week ;  the  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  going  alone 
had  gone ;  it  would  never  return ;  the  feeling  of  selfishness 
in  spending  money  on  a  theatre  alone  was  still  there,  but  a 
voice  within  answered  that  —  saying  that  there  was  no  one 
at  hand  to  go  and  no  one  she  knew  who  would  find  at  the 
Lyceum  performance  just  what  she  found,  no  one  to  whom 
it  would  mean  much  more  than  a  theatre ;  like  any  other 
theatre  and  a  play,  amongst  other  plays,  with  a  celebrated 
actor  taking  the  chief  part  .  .  .  except  Mag.  Mag  had 
been  with  her  as  she  gazed.  Mag  was  with  her  now.  Mag, 
fulfilling  one  or  other  of  her  exciting  Saturday  afternoon 
engagements  would  sit  at  her  side. 

Easy  and  happy  she  fled  along  .  .  .  her  heart  greeting 
each  passenger  in  the  scattered  throng  she  threaded,  her 
eyes  upon  the  traffic  in  the  roadway.  A  horseless  broug- 
ham went  by,  moving  smoothly  and  silently  amongst  the 
noisy  traffic  —  the  driver  looked  as  though  he  were  fastened 
to  the  front  of  the  vehicle,  a  little  tin  driver  on  a  clock- 
work toy ;  there  was  nothing  between  him  and  the  road 
but  the  platform  of  the  little  tank  on  which  his  feet  were 
set.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  falling  off.  If  anything 
ran  into  him  there  was  nothing  to  protect  him.  It  left 
an  uncomfortable  memory  ...  it  would  only  be  for  car- 
riages ;  the  well-loved  horse  omnibuses  would  go  on  .  .  . 


THE    TUNNEL  219 

it  must  be  somewhere  near  here  ..."  Lyceum  Pit,"  there 
it  was,  just  ahead,  easily  discernible.  Last  week  when 
she  had  had  to  ask,  she  had  not  noticed  the  words  printed 
on  the  side  of  the  passage  that  showed  as  you  came  down 
the  Strand.  The  pavement  was  clear  for  a  moment  and 
she  rounded  the  near  angle  and  ran  home  down  the  passage 
without  slackening  her  pace,  her  half-crown  ready  in  her 
hand,  a  Lyceum  pittite. 

3 

The  dark  pit  seemed  very  full  as  she  entered  the  door 
at  the  left  hand  corner ;  dim  forms  standing  at  the  back 
told  her  there  were  no  seats  left ;  but  she  made  her  way 
across  to  the  right  and  down  the  incline  hoping  for  a 
neglected  place  somewhere  on  the  extreme  right.  Her 
vain  search  brought  her  down  to  the  barrier  and  the  end 
of  her  inspection  of  the  serried  ranks  of  seated  forms  to 
her  left  swept  her  eyes  forward.  She  was  just  under  the 
overhanging  balcony  of  the  dress-circle ;  the  well  of  the 
theatre  opened  clear  before  her  as  she  stood  against  the 
barrier,  the  stalls  half  full  and  filling  with  dim  forms  gliding 
in  right  and  left,  the  upward  sweep  of  the  theatre  walls 
covered  with  boxes  from  which  white  faces  shone  in  the 
gloom,  a  soft  pervading  saffron  light,  bright  light  heavily 
screened.  There  was  space  all  round  her,  the  empty  gang- 
way behind,  the  gangway  behind  the  stalls  just  in  front 
of  the  barrier,  the  view  clear  away  to  the  stage  over  the 
heads  of  the  people  sitting  in  the  stalls.  .  .  .  Why  not 
stay  here?  If  people  stood  at  the  back  of  the  pit  they  might 
stand  in  front.  She  retreated  into  the  angle  made  by  the 
out-curving  wall  of  the  pit  and  the  pit  barrier.  Putting 
down  the  basket  of  roses  on  the  floor  at  her  side  she  leaned 
against  the  barrier  with  her  elbows  on  its  rim. 


220  THE   TUNNEL 


He  was  there  before  he  appeared  ...  in  the  orchestra, 
in  the  audience,  all  over  the  house.  Presently,  in  a  few 
moments  he  was  going  to  appear,  moving  and  speaking  on 
the  stage.  Someone  might  come  forward  and  announce 
that  he  was  ill  or  dead.  He  would  die ;  perhaps  only  years 
hence;  but  long  before  one  was  old  .  .  .  death  of  Henry 
Irving.  No  more  thoughts  of  that;  he  is  there  —  perhaps 
for  twenty  years ;  coming  and  going,  having  seasons  at  the 
Lyceum.  He  knew  he  must  die ;  he  did  not  think  about  it. 
He  would  turn  with  a  smile  and  go  straight  up,  in  a  rosy 
chariot  .  .  .  well  done  thou  good  and  faithful  and  happy 
servant.  He  would  go,  closing  his  eyes  upon  the  vision 
that  was  always  in  them,  something  they  saw,  something 
they  gave  out  every  moment.  Whom  the  gods  love  die 
young  .  .  .  not  always  young  in  years,  but  young  always ; 
trailing  clouds  of  glory.  It  is  always  the  unexpected  that 
happens.  Things  you  dread  never  happen.  That  is 
Weber  —  or  Meyerbeer.  Who  chooses  the  music?  Perhaps 
he  does. 

The  orchestration  brought  back  last  week's  performance. 
It  was  all  there,  behind  the  curtain.  Shylock,  swinging 
across  the  stage  with  his  halting  dragging  stride ;  halting, 
standing  with  bent  head ;  shut-in,  lonely  sweetness.  She 
looked  boldly  now,  untrammelled  in  her  dark  corner  at  the 
pictures  which  had  formed  part  of  her  distant  view  all  last 
week  in  the  far-away  life  at  Wimpole  Street;  the  great 
scenes  .  .  .  beautifully  staged;  "Irving  always  stages 
everything  perfectly  " —  and  battled  no  longer  against  her 
sympathy  for  Shylock.  It  no  longer  shocked  her  to  find 
herself  sharing  something  of  his  longing  for  the  blood  of 
the    Christians.     It   was    wrong;    but    were    not   they   too 


THE   TUNNEL  221 

wrong?  They  must  be;  there  must  be  some  reason  for 
this  certainty  of  sympathy  with  Shylock  and  aversion  from 
Bassanio.  It  might  be  a  wrong  reason,  but  it  was  there 
in  her.  Mag  said  "  that's  his  genius ;  he  makes  you  sym- 
pathise even  with  Shylock.  .  .  ."  He  shows  you  that  you 
do  sympathise  with  Shylock ;  Mag  thinks  that  is  something 
to  admit  shamefacedly.  Because  those  other  people  were 
to  her  just  "people."  Bassanio  —  was  it  not  just  as 
wrong  to  get  into  debt  and  raise  money  from  the  Jews 
as  to  let  money  out  on  usury?  But  it  was  his  friend.  He 
was  innocent  Never  mind.  They  were  all,  all,  smug  and 
complacent  in  their  sunshine.  Polished  lustful  man,  with 
his  coarse  lustful  men  friends.  Portia  and  Nerissa  were 
companions  in  affliction.  Beautiful  first  of  all ;  as  lovely 
and  wandering  and  full  of  visions  as  Shylock  until  their 
lovers  came.  Hearn  was  right.  English  lovers  would 
shock  any  Japanese.  Not  that  the  Japanese  were  prudish. 
According  to  him  they  were  anything  but  .  .  .  they  would 
not  talk  as  Englishmen  did  among  themselves  and  in  mixed 
society  in  a  sort  of  code ;  thinking  themselves  so  clever ; 
anyone  could  talk  a  code  who  chose  to  descend  to  a  me- 
chanical trick. 

How  much  more  real  was  the  relation  between  Portia 
and  Nerissa  than  between  either  of  the  sadly  jesting  women 
and  their  complacently  jesting  lovers.  Did  a  man  ever 
speak  in  a  natural  voice  —  neither  blustering,  nor  display- 
ing his  cleverness,  nor  being  simply  a  lustful  slave? 
Women  always  despise  men  under  the  influence  of  passion 
or  fatigue.  What  horrible  old  men  those  two  would  be  — 
still  speaking  in  put  on  voices  to  hide  their  shame,  pompous 
and  philosophising.  ..."  Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a 
thing  apart  .  .  ."  so  much  the  worse  for  man ;  there  must 
be  something  very  wrong  with  his  life.  But  it  would  go 
on  until  men  saw  and  admitted  this.  .  .  .  Portia  was  right 


222  THE   TUNNEL 

when  she  preached  her  sermon  —  it  made  everyone  feel 
sorry  for  all  harshness  —  then  one  ought  not  to  be  harsh 
to  the  blindness  of  men  .  .  .  somebody  had  said  men  would 
lose  all  their  charm  if  they  lost  their  vanity  and  childish 
cocksureness  about  their  superiority  —  to  force  and  brow- 
beat them  into  seeing  themselves  would  not  help  —  but 
that  is  what  I  want  to  do.  I  am  like  a  man  in  that,  over- 
bearing, bullying,  blustering.  I  am  something  between  a 
man  and  a  woman ;  looking  both  ways.  But  to  pretend  one 
did  not  see  through  a  man's  voice  would  be  treachery. 
Nearly  all  men  will  hate  me  —  because  I  can't  play  up  for 
long.  Harshness  must  go ;  perhaps  that  was  what  Christ 
meant.  But  Portia  only  wanted  to  save  Bassanio's  life ; 
and  did  it  by  a  trick.  It  was  not  a  Daniel  come  to  judg- 
ment; it  showed  the  folly  of  law;  pettifogging;  the  abuse 
of  the  letter  of  the  law.  She  was  harsh  to  Shylock.  Which 
is  most  cruel,  to  take  life  or  to  torture  the  living?  The 
Christians  were  so  self-satisfied ;  going  off  to  their  love- 
making;  that  spoiled  the  play,  their  future  was  much  more 
dark  and  miserable  than  the  struggle  between  the  sensual 
Englishman  and  the  wily  Jew.  The  play  ought  to  have 
ended  there,  with  the  woman  in  the  cap  and  gown  pleading, 
showing  something  that  could  not  be  denied  —  ye  are  all 
together  in  one  condemnation.  In  that  moment  Portia 
was  great,  her  red  robe  shone  and  lit  the  world.  She  ought 
to  have  left  them  all  and  gone  through  all  the  law  courts 
of  the  world;  showing  up  the  law.  Wit.  Woman's  wit. 
Men  at  least  bowed  down  to  that;  though  they  did  not 
know  what  it  was.  '  Wit '  used  to  mean  knowledge  — 
"  in-wit,"  conscience.  The  knowledge  of  woman  is  larger, 
bigger,  deeper,  less  wordy  and  clever  than  that  of  men. 
Certainly.  But  why  do  not  men  acknowledge  this?  They 
talk  about  mother-love  and  mother-wit  and  instinct,  as  if 
they  were  mysterious  tricks.     They  have  no  real  knowl- 


THE   TUNNEL  223 

edge,  but  of  things ;  a  sort  of  superiority  they  get  by  being 
free  to  be  out  in  the  world  amongst  things ;  they  do  not  un- 
derstand people.  If  a  woman  is  good  it  is  all  right;  if  she 
is  bad  it  is  all  wrong.  Cherchez  la  femme.  Then  every- 
thing in  life  depends  upon  women?  "A  civilisation  can 
never  rise  above  the  level  of  its  women."  Perhaps  if 
women  became  lawyers  they  would  change  things.  Women 
do  not  respect  law.  No  wonder,  since  it  is  folly,  an  end- 
less play  on  words.  Portia?  She  had  been  quite  com- 
placent about  being  unkind  to  the  Jew.  She  had  been  in- 
vented by  a  man.  There  was  no  reality  in  any  of  Shake- 
speare's women.  They  please  men  because  they  show 
women  as  men  see  them.  All  the  other  things  are  invisible ; 
nothing  but  their  thoughts  and  feelings  about  men  and 
bothers.  Shakespeare  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the 
words  and  actions  of  Nerissa  and  Portia  when  they  were 
alone  together,  the  beauty  they  knew  and  felt  and  saw, 
holy  beauty  everywhere.  Shakespeare's  plays  are  '  uni- 
versal '  because  they  are  about  the  things  that  everybody 
knows  and  hands  about,  and  they  do  not  trouble  anybody. 
They  make  everyone  feel  wise.  It  isn't  what  he  says  it's 
the  way  he  says  all  these  things  that  don't  matter  and  leave 
everything  out.     It's  all  a  sublime  fuss. 

Italians !  Of  course.  Well  —  Europeans.  It  is  the 
difference  between  the  Europeans  and  the  Japanese  that 
Hearn  had  meant. 

5 
Then  there  is  tragedy!  Things  are  not  simple  right 
and  wrong.  There  are  a  million  sides  to  every  question; 
as  many  sides  as  there  are  people  to  see  and  feel  them 
and  in  all  big  national  struggles  two  clear  sides,  both  right 
and  both  wrong.  The  man  who  wrote  "  The  Struggle 
against  Absolute  Monarchy "  was  a  Roundhead ;  and  he 


224  THE    TUNNEL 

made  me   a   Roundhead;   Green's   History   is   Roundhead. 
I  never  saw  Charles'  point  of  view  or  thought  about  it ; 
but  only  of  the  unjust  levies  and  the  dissolution  of  Parlia- 
ment and  the  dissoluteness  of  the  Court.     If  I  had  seen 
Irving  then   it  would  have  made  a  difference.     He  could 
never  have  been  Cromwell.     He  is  Charles.     Things  hap- 
pen.    People   tell   him   things   and    he   cannot   understand. 
He  believes  in  divine  right  .  .  .  sweet  and  gentle,  with  per- 
fect manners   for  all  .  .  .  perfect  in   private  life  .  .  .  the 
first  gentleman  in  the  land,  the  only  person  free  to  have 
perfect    manners ;    the    representative    of    God    on    earth. 
"  Decaying  feudalism."     But  they  ought  not  to  have  killed 
him.     He  cannot  understand.     He  is  the  scapegoat.     Free- 
dom looks  so  fine  in  your  mind.     Parliaments  and  Trial  by 
Jury  and  the  abolition  of  the  Star  Chamber  and  the  triumph 
of  Cromwell's  visionaries.     But  it  means  this  gentle  velvet- 
coated  figure  with  its  delicate  ruffled  hands,  its  sweetness 
and  courtesy,  going  with  bandaged  eyes  —  to  death.     Was 
there  no  way  out?     Must  one  either  be  a  Royalist  or  a 
Roundhead.     Must    monarchies    decay?     Then    why    did 
the    Restoration   come?     What   do    English    people   want? 
"  A    limited    Monarchy " ;    a    King   controlled    by    Parlia- 
ment.    As  well  not  have  a  King  at  all.     Who  would  not 
rather   live    with    Charles    than   with   Cromwell?     Charles 
would  have  entertained  a  beggar  royally.     Cromwell  was 
too   busy    with   "affairs   of    State"   to   entertain   beggars. 
Charles  dying  for  his  faith  was  more  beautiful  than  Crom- 
well fighting  for  his  reason.     Yet  the  people  must  be  free ; 
there  must  be  justice.     Kings  ought  to  be  taught  differ- 
ently.    He  did  not  understand.     No  one  believing  in  divine 
right  can  understand.     Was  the  idea  of  divine  right  a  mis- 
take?    Can  no  one  be  trusted  ?     Cromwell's  son  was  a  weak 
fool.     How  can   a  country  be   ruled?     People  will   never 
agree.     What  ought  one  to  be  if  one  can  neither  be  quite  a 


THE   TUNNEL  225 

Roundhead  nor  quite  a  Cavalier?  They  worshipped  two 
gods.  Are  there  two  Gods?  .  .  .  Irving  .  .  .  walking 
gently  about  inside  Charles  feeling  as  he  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  sunlit  garden,  the  delicate  clothes,  the  refinement  of 
fine  living,  the  charm  of  perfect  association,  the  rich  beauty 
of  each  day  as  it  passed.  .  .  .  Charles  died  with  all  that  in 
his  eyes,  knowing  it  good.  Cromwell  was  a  farmer.  Christ 
was  a  carpenter.  Christ  did  not  bother  about  kings. 
"  Render  unto  Caesar." 


CHAPTER    XVI 


THEY  had  walked  swiftly  and  silently  along  through 
the  bright  evening  daylight  of  the  Finchley  Road. 
Miriam  held  her  knowledge  suspended,  looking  forward 
to  the  enclosure  at  the  end  of  the  few  minutes'  walk.  But 
the  conservatoire  was  not  enclosed.  The  clear  bright  light 
flooding  the  rows  and  rows  of  seated  summer  clad  Hamp- 
stead  people  and  lighting  up  every  corner  of  the  level  square 
hall  was  like  the  outside  evening  daylight.  The  air  seemed 
as  pure  as  the  outside  air.  She  followed  Mr.  Hancock  to 
their  seats  at  the  gangway  end  of  the  fourth  row  passing 
between  the  sounds  echoing  thinly  from  the  platform  and 
the  wave  of  attention  sweeping  towards  the  platform  from 
the  massed  rows  of  intelligent  faces.  As  they  sat  down  the 
chairman's  voice  ceased  and  the  lights  were  lowered ;  but 
so  slightly  that  the  hall  was  still  perfectly  exposed  and  clear. 
The  people  still  looked  as  though  they  were  out  of  doors 
or  in  their  large  houses.  This  was  modern  improvement  — 
hard  clear  light.  Their  minds  and  their  thoughts  and  their 
lives  and  their  clothes  were  always  in  it.  She  stared  at  the 
screen.  A  large  slide  was  showing,  lit  from  behind.  It 
made  a  sort  of  stage  scenery  for  the  rest  of  the  scene,  all 
in  one  light.  She  fixed  her  attention.  An  enormous  ves- 
sel with  its  side  stove  in,  yes,  "  stove  in  " ;  in  a  dock.  They 
got  information  at  any  rate  and  then  perhaps  got  free  and 
thought  their  own  thoughts.  No.  They  would  follow 
and    think    and    talk    intelligently    about   the    information. 

226 


THE   TUNNEL  227 

Rattling  their  cultured  voices.  Mad  with  pretences  .  .  . 
In  dry  dock,  going  to  be  repaired.  Gazing  sternly  at  the 
short  man  with  the  long  pointer  talking  in  an  anxious  high 
thin  voice,  his  head  with  its  upstanding  crest  of  hair  half- 
turned  towards  the  audience,  she  suppressed  a  giggle. 
Folding  her  hands  she  gazed,  shaking  in  every  limb,  not 
daring  to  follow  what  he  said  for  fear  of  laughing  aloud. 
Shreds  of  his  first  long  sentence  caught  in  her  thoughts 
and  gave  her  his  meaning,  shaking  her  into  giggles.  Her 
features  quivered  under  her  skin  as  she  held  them  in  forcing 
her  eyes  towards  the  distances  of  sky  beyond  the  ship. 
Her  customary  expletives  shot  through  her  mind  in  rapid 
succession  with  each  one  the  scarves  and  silk  and  velvet 
of  the  audience  grew  brighter  about  the  edge  of  her  circle 
of  vision. 


She  was  an  upstart  and  an  alien  and  here  she  was.  It 
was  more  extraordinary  in  this  Hampstead  clarity  than 
at  a  theatre  or  concert  in  town.  It  was  a  part  of  his 
world  .  .  .  and  theirs ;  one  might  get  the  manner  and  still 
keep  alive.  .  .  .  Was  he  out  of  humour  because  he  had 
realised  what  he  had  done  or  because  she  had  been  late  for 
dinner?  Was  he  thinking  what  his  behaviour  amounted 
to  in  the  eyes  of  his  aunt  and  cousins ;  even  supposing 
they  did  not  know  that  the  invitation  to  dinner  and  the 
lecture  had  been  given  only  this  afternoon?  He  must  have 
known  it  was  necessary  to  go  home  and  tidy  up.  When 
he  said  the  conservatoire  was  so  near  that  there  would  be 
plenty  of  time  was  not  that  as  good  as  saying  she  might  be 
a  little  late?  Why  had  he  not  said  they  were  staying  with 
him?  Next  week  was  full  of  appointments  for  their  teeth. 
So  he  knew  they  were  coming  .  .  .  and  then  to  go  march- 
ing in  to  the  midst  of  them  three  quarters  of  an  hour  late 


228  THE   TUNNEL 

and  to  be  so  dumbfounded  as  to  be  unable  to  apologise 
.  .  .  my  dear  I  shall  never  forget  the  faces  of  those  women. 
I  could  not  imagine  at  first  what  was  wrong.  He  was  look- 
ing so  strange.  The  women  barely  noticed  me  —  barely 
noticed  me.  "  I'm  afraid  dinner  will  be  spoiled  "  he  said, 
in  his  way.  They  had  all  been  sitting  round  the  fire  three 
mortal  quarters  of  an  hour  waiting  for  me!"  How  they 
would  talk.  Their  thoughts  and  feelings  about  employees 
could  be  seen  at  a  glance.  It  was  bad  enough  for  them  to 
have  a  secretary  appearing  at  dinner  the  first  evening  of 
their  great  visit.  And  now  they  were  sitting  alone  round 
the  fire  and  she  was  at  the  lecture  alone,  unchaperoned, 
with  him,  "  she  had  the  effrontery  to  come  to  dinner  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  late  .  .  ."  featherly  hair  and  peri- 
winkle eyes  and  white  noses ;  gentle  die-away  voices.  Per- 
haps the  thought  of  his  favourite  cousins  coming  next 
week  buoyed  him  up.  No  wonder  he  wanted  to  get  away  to 
the  lecture.  He  had  come,  reasonably ;  not  seeing  why  he 
should  not;  just  as  he  would  have  gone  if  they  had  not 
been  there.  Now  he  saw  it  as  they  saw  it.  There  he  sat. 
She  gazed  at  the  shifting  scenes  .  .  .  ports  and  strange 
islands  in  distant  seas,  sunlit  coloured  mountains  tops 
peaking  up  from  forests.  The  lecturing  voice  was  far 
away,  irrelevant  and  unintelligible.     Peace  flooded  her. 


CHAPTER   XVII 


THE  patient  sat  up  with  a  groan  of  relief.  His  dark 
strong  positive  liverish  profile  turned  away  towards 
the  spittoon.  There  was  a  clean  broad  gap  of  neck  between 
the  strong  inturned  ending  of  his  hair  and  the  narrow  strip 
of  firm  heavily  glazed  blue  white  collar  fitting  perfectly 
into  the  collar  of  the  well-cut  grey  coat  clothing  the  firm 
balk  of  his  body.  "  To  my  mind  there's  no  reason  why 
they  shouldn't  do  thoroughly  well  "  he  said  into  the  spit- 
toon. All  the  hospitals  would  employ  'em  in  the  end. 
They're  more  natty  and  conscientious  than  men  and  there's 
nothing  in  the  work  they  can't  manage." 

"  No,  I  think  that's  so." 

Miriam  cleared  her  throat  emphatically.  They  had  no 
right  to  talk  in  that  calm  disposing  way  in  the  presence  of  a 
woman.  Mr.  Hancock  felt  that  too.  That  kind  of  man 
was  always  nice  to  women.  Strong  and  cheerful  and  help- 
ing them ;  but  with  his  mind  full  of  quotations  and  general- 
isations. He  would  bring  them  out  anywhere.  It  would 
never  occur  to  him  that  the  statement  of  them  could  be 
offensive.  His  newspaper  office  would  be  full  of  little 
girls.  "  It's  those  little  ph'girls."  But  the  Amalgam 
Company  probably  had  quite  uneducated  girls.  Nobody 
ought  to  be  asked  to  spend  their  lives  calculating  decimal 
quantities.  The  men  who  lived  on  these  things  had  their 
drudgery  done  for  them.  They  did  it  themselves  first. 
Yes,  but  then  it  meant  their  future.     A  woman  clerk  never 

229 


23o  THE   TUNNEL 

becomes  a  partner.  There  was  no  hope  for  women  in 
business.  That  man's  wife  would  be  wealthy  and  screened 
and  looked  after  all  her  days;  he  working.  He  would  live 
as  long  as  she  —  a  little  old  slender  nut-brown  man. 

"  What  was  the  employment  Mr.  Dolland  was  speaking 
of?" 

"  Dispensing.  I  think  he's  quite  right.  And  it's  not  at 
all  badly  paid." 

"  It  ought  not  to  be.  Think  of  the  responsibility  and 
anxiety." 

"  It's  a  jolly  stiff  exam  too." 

"  I  like  the  calm  way  he  talks,  as  if  it  were  his  business 
to  decide  what  is  suitable." 

Mr.  Hancock  laughed.  "  He's  a  very  influential  man, 
you  know,"  he  said  going  to  the  tube.  "  Yes?  —  Oh,  show 
them  up." 

Miriam  detected  the  note  that  meant  a  trial  ahead  and 
went  about  her  clearing  with  quiet  swift  busy  sympathy. 
Rut  Mr.  Dolland  had  been  a  good  introduction  to  the  try- 
ing hour.  Her  thoughts  followed  his  unconsciousness 
down  to  his  cab.  She  saw  the  spatted  boot  on  the  foot- 
plate, the  neat  strong  swing  of  the  body,  the  dip  of  the 
hansom,  the  darkling  face  sitting  inside  under  the  shiny 
hat  .  .  .  the  room  had  become  dreadful;  empty  and  silent; 
pressed  full  with  a  dreadful  atmosphere;  those  women 
from  Rochester  —  but  they  always  sat  still.  These  people 
were  making  little  faint  fussings  of  movement,  like  the 
creakings  of  clothes  in  church  and  the  same  silent  hostile 
feeling;  people  being  obliged  to  be  with  people.  There 
were  two  or  three  besides  the  figure  in  the  chair.  Mr. 
Hancock  had  got  to  work  with  silent  assiduity.  His  face 
when  he  turned  to  the  cabinet  was  disordered,  separate 
from  the  room  and  from  his  work ;  a  most  curious  expres- 
sion.    He  turned  again,  busily.     It  was  something  in  the 


THE   TUNNEL  231 

mouth,  resentful,  and  a  bad-tempered  look  in  the  eyes; 
a  look  of  discomposed  youth.  Of  course.  The  aunt  and 
cousins.  Had  she  cut  them,  standing  with  her  back  to  the 
room,  or  they  her?  She  moved  sideways  with  her  bundle 
of  cleaned  instruments  to  the  cabinet  putting  them  all  on 
the  flap  and  beginning  to  open  drawers,  standing  at  his 
elbow  as  he  stood  turned  away  from  the  chair  mixing  a 
paste. 

"  You  might  leave  those  there  for  the  present "  he  mur- 
mured. She  turned  and  went  down  the  room  between  the 
unoccupied  seated  figures,  keeping  herself  alert  to  respond 
to  a  greeting.  They  sat  vacant  and  still.  Ladies  in 
church.  Acrimonious.  Querulously  dressed  in  pretty 
materials  and  colours  that  would  only  keep  fresh  in  the 
country.  She  went  to  the  door  lingeringly.  It  was  so 
familiar.  There  had  been  all  that  at  Babington.  It  was 
that  that  was  in  these  figures  straggling  home  from  school, 
in  pretty  successful  clothes,  walking  along  the  middle  of 
the  sunlit  road  .  .  .  May-bell  deah  .  .  .  not  balancing 
along  the  row  of  drain  pipes  nor  pulling  streaks  of  Berk- 
shire goody  through  their  lips.  This  was  their  next  stage. 
When  she  reached  the  stairs  she  felt  herself  wrapped  in 
their  scorn.  It  was  true ;  there  was  something  impregnable 
about  them.  They  sat  inside  a  little  fortress,  letting  in  only 
certain  people.  But  they  did  not  know  she  could  see  every- 
thing inside  the  fortress,  hear  all  their  thoughts  much  more 
clearly  than  the  things  they  said.  To  them  she  was  a  closed 
book.  They  did  not  want  to  open  it.  But  if  they  had 
wanted  to  they  could  not  have  read. 


The  insolence  of  it.  Her  social  position  had  been  ident- 
ical with  theirs  and  his.  Her  early  circumstances  a  good 
deal  more  ambitious  and  generous.  .  .  .  '  A  moment  of  my 


232  THE   TUNNEL 

consciousness  is  wider  than  any  of  theirs  will  be  in  the 
whole  of  their  lives.'  ...  If  she  could  have  stayed  in  all 
that,  she  would  have  been  as  far  as  possible  just  the  same, 
sometimes  .  .  .  for  certain  purposes.  A  little  close  group, 
loyal  and  quarrelsome  for  ends  that  any  woman  could  see 
through.  Fawning  and  flattering  and  affectionate  to  each 
other  and  getting  half-maddened  by  the  one  necessity.  The 
girls  would  repeat  the  history  of  their  mother,  and  get  her 
sour  faced  pretty  delicate  refinement.  They  were  so  ex- 
quisite, now,  to  look  at  —  the  flower-like  edges  of  their 
faces,  unchanging  from  morning  to  night ;  warmth  and 
care  and  cleanliness  and  rich  clean  food ;  no  fatigue  or 
worry  or  embarrassment,  once  they  had  learned  how  to  sit 
and  move  and  eat.  To  many  men  they  would  appear 
angels.  They  would  not  meet  many  in  the  Berkshire  val- 
ley. But  their  mother  would  manoeuvre  engagements  for 
them  and  their  men  would  see  them  as  angels  fresh  from 
their  mother's  hands;  miracles  of  beauty  and  purity.  .  .  . 
Refined  shrews,  turning  in  circles,  like  moths  on  pins ; 
brainless,  mindless,  heartless,  the  prey  of  the  professions ; 
priests,  doctors  and  lawyers.  These  two  groups  kept  each 
other  going.  There  was  something  hidden  in  the  fact  that 
these  women's  men  always  entered  professions. 

3 

Large  portions  of  the  mornings  and  afternoons  of  that 
week  were  free  from  visits  to  the  upstairs  surgery.  From 
Tuesday  morning  she  kept  it  well  filled  with  supplies ; 
guessing  that  she  was  to  be  saved  further  contact  with  the 
aunt  and  cousins;  and  drew  from  the  stimulus  of  their 
comings  and  goings,  the  sound  of  their  voices  in  the  hall 
and  on  the  stairs  a  fund  of  energy  that  filled  her  unex- 
pected stretches  of  leisure  with  unceasing  methodical  la- 
bour.    Uninterrupted  work  on  the  ledgers  awakened  her 


THE   TUNNEL  233 

interest  in  them,  the  sense  that  the  books  were  nearly  all 
up  to  date,  the  possibility  of  catching  up  altogether  before 
the  end  of  the  week  brought  a  relief  and  a  sense  of  mastery 
that  made  the  June  sunshine  gay  morning  after  morning 
as  she  tramped  through  it  along  the  Euston  Road.  Every 
hour  was  full  of  a  strange  excitement.  Wide  vistas  shone 
ahead.  On  the  first  of  September  shone  a  blinding  rad- 
iance. She  would  get  up  that  morning  in  her  dusty  garret 
in  the  heat  and  dust  of  London  with  nothing  to  do  for  a 
month ;  and  ride  away,  somewhere,  ride  away  through  the 
streets,  free,  out  to  the  suburbs,  like  a  Sunday  morning  ride, 
and  then  into  the  country.  She  had  weathered  the  winter 
and  the  strange  beginnings  and  would  go  away  to  come 
back ;  the  rest  of  the  summer  till  then  would  go  dancing, 
like  a  dream.  There  was  all  that  coming ;  making  her  heart 
leap  when  she  thought  of  it,  unknown  Wiltshire  —  with 
Leader  landscapes  for  a  week  and  then  something  else. 
And  meanwhile  Wimpole  Street.  She  went  about  her  work 
borne  along  unwearied  upon  a  tide  that  flowed  out  in 
glistening  sunlit  waves  over  the  sunlit  shore  of  the  world. 
The  doors  and  windows  of  her  cool  shaded  room  opened 
upon  a  life  that  spread  out  before  her  fanwise  towards 
endless  brilliant  distances.  Moments  of  fatigue,  little  ob- 
stinate knots  and  tangles  of  urgent  practical  affairs  did 
their  utmost  to  convince  her  that  life  was  a  perpetual  con- 
flict, nothing  certain  and  secure  but  the  thwarting  and  dis- 
crediting of  the  dream-vision ;  every  contact  seemed  to 
end  in  an  assurance  of  her  unarmed  resourceless  state. 
Pausing  now  and  again  to  balance  her  account,  to  try  to 
find  a  sanction  for  her  joy,  she  watched  and  felt  the  little 
stabs  of  the  actual  facts  as  they  would  be  summarised  by 
some  disinterested  observer,  and  again  and  again  saw  them 
foiled.  They  danced,  comically  powerless  against  some 
unheard  piping;  motes,  funny  and  beloved,  in  the  sunbeam 


234  T  H  E    T  U  N  N  E  L 

of  her  life.  .  .  .  Next  week  and  the  coming  of  the  favourite 
cousins  made  a  bright  barrier  across  the  future  and  a  little 
fence  round  her  labours.  Everything  must  be  ordered  and 
straight  before  then.  She  must  be  free  and  reproachless 
for  the  wonders  and  terrors  of  their  visit.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
there  might  be  only  the  one  meeting;  the  evening  already 
arranged  might  be  all  the  week's  visit  would  bring.  The 
week  would  pass  unseen  by  her  and  everything  would  be 
as  before.  As  before;  was  not  that  enough,  and  more 
than  enough  ? 

4 
Her  rare  visits  to  the  surgery  were  festivals.  Free  from 
the  usual  daily  fatigue  of  constant  standing  for  reiterated 
clearances  and  cleansings  of  small  sets  of  instruments,  she 
swept  full  of  cheerful  strength,  her  mind  free  for  method, 
her  hands  steady  and  deft,  upon  the  accumulations  left  by 
long  sittings,  rapping  out  her  commentary  upon  his  pro- 
longed endurance  by  emphatic  bumpings  of  basins  and 
utensils ;  making  it  unnecessary  for  him  to  voice  the  con- 
trolled exasperation  that  spoke  for  her  from  every  move- 
ment and  tone.  Once  or  twice  she  felt  it  wavering  towards 
speech  and  whisked  about  and  bumped  things  down  with 
extra  violence.  Once  or  twice  he  smiled  into  her  angry 
face  and  she  feared  he  was  going  to  speak  of  them. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


IT  was  a  sort  of  formality.  They  all  three  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  something  to  begin.  They  were  not 
at  ease.  Perhaps  they  had  come  to  the  end  of  everything 
they  had  to  say  to  each  other  and  had  only  the  memory 
of  their  common  youth  to  bind  them  to  each  other.  Mem- 
bers of  the  same  family  never  seemed  to  be  quite  at  ease 
sitting  together  doing  nothing.  These  three  met  so  seldom 
that  they  were  obliged  when  they  met  to  appear  to  be 
giving  their  whole  attention  to  each  other,  sitting  con- 
fronted and  trying  to  keep  talk  going  all  the  time.  That 
made  everyone  speak  and  smile  and  look  self-consciously. 
Perhaps  they  reminded  each  other  by  their  mutual  pres- 
ence that  the  dreams  of  their  youth  had  not  been  fulfilled. 
And  the  cousins  were  formal.  Like  the  other  cousins  they 
belonged  to  the  prosperous  provincial  middle  class  that  al- 
ways tries  to  get  its  sons  into  professions.  Without  the 
volume  of  Sophocles  one  would  have  known  he  was  part 
of  a  school  and  she  would  have  been  nothing  but  the  wife 
or  daughter  or  sister  of  an  English  professional  man.  It 
was  always  the  same  world;  once  the  only  world  that  was 
worthy  of  one's  envious  admiration  and  respect;  changed 
now  ..."  hardworked  little  text  book  people  and  here 
and  there  an  enlightened  thwarted  man."  .  .  .  Was  Mr. 
Canfield  thwarted?  There  was  a  curious  look  of  lonely 
enlightenment  about  his  head.  At  the  University,  and 
now  and  again  with  a  head  master  or  a  fellow  assistant- 
master  he  had  had  moments  of  exchange  and  been  happy 

235 


236  THE   TUNNEL 

for  a  moment  and  seen  the  world  alight.  But  his  happiest 
times  had  been  in  loneliness,  with  thoughts  coming  to  him 
out  of  books.  They  had  been  his  solace  and  his  refuge 
since  he  was  fifteen;  and  in  spite  of  the  hair  greying  his 
temples  he  was  still  fifteen:  within  him  were  all  the  dreams 
and  all  the  dreadful  crudities  of  boyhood  ...  he  had 
never  grown  to  man's  estate.  .  .  .  He  had  understood  at 
once.  "  It  always  seems  unnecessary  to  explain  things 
to  people ;  you  feel  while  you  are  explaining  that  they  will 
meet  the  same  thing  themselves,  perhaps  in  some  different 
form  ;  but  certainly,  because  things  are  all  the  same."  "  Oh 
yes ;  that's  certainly  so."  He  had  looked  pleased  and 
lightened.  Darkness  and  cold  had  come  in  an  instant  with 
Mrs.  Canfield's  unexpected  reverent  voice.  "  I  don't  quite 
understand  what  that  means ;  tell  me."  She  had  put  down 
her  fancy  work  and  lifted  her  flower-like  face,  not  sus- 
piciously as  the  other  cousins  would  have  done,  but  with 
their  type  of  gentle  formal  refinement  and  something  of 
their  look.  She  could  be  sour  and  acid  if  she  chose.  She 
could  curl  her  lips  and  snub  people.  What  was  the  secret 
of  the  everlasting  same  aw  fulness  of  even  the  nicest  of  re- 
fined sheltered  middle-class  English-woman?  He  had 
stumbled  and  wandered  through  a  vague  statement.  He 
knew  that  all  the  long  loneliness  of  his  mind  lay  revealed 
before  one  —  and  yet  she  had  been  the  dream  and  wonder 
and  magic  of  his  youth  and  still  was  his  dear  companion. 
The  '  lady  '  was  the  wife  for  the  professional  Englishman 
—  simple  sheltered  domesticated,  trained  in  principles  she 
did  not  think  about  and  living  by  them  ;  revering  profes- 
sional and  professionally  successful  men ;  never  seeing  the 
fifth-form  schoolboys  they  all  were.  No  woman  who  saw 
them  as  they  were  with  their  mental  pride  and  vanity  and 
fixity,  would  stay  with  them ;  no  woman  who  saw  their 
veiled  appetites.  .  .  .  But  where  could  all  these  wives  go? 


THE   TUNNEL  237 


Throughout  the  evening  she  was  kept  quiet  and  dull 
and  felt  presently  very  weary.  Her  helpless  stock-taking 
made  it  difficult  to  face  the  strangers,  lest  painful  illumina- 
tion and  pity  and  annoyance  should  stream  from  her  too 
visibly.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  too  took  stock  and  pitied ;  but 
they  were  interested,  a  little  eager  in  response  and  though 
too  well  bred  for  questions,  obviously  full  of  unanswered 
surmises,  which  perhaps  presently  they  would  communicate 
to  each  other.  There  were  people  who  would  say  she  was 
too  egoistic  to  be  interested  in  them,  a  selfish,  unsocial, 
unpleasant  person  and  they  were  kind  charming  people, 
interested  in  everybody.  That  might  be  true.  .  .  .  But  it 
was  also  true  that  they  were  eager  and  interested  because 
their  lives  were  empty  of  everything  but  principles  and  a 
certain  fixed  way  of  looking  at  things ;  and  one  could  be 
fond  of  their  niceness  and  respectful  to  their  goodness 
but  never  interested  because  one  knew  everything  about 
them,  even  their  hidden  thoughts  and  the  side  of  them 
that  was  not  nice  or  good  without  having  any  communica- 
tion with  them.  .  .  .  He  had  another  side ;  but  there  was 
no  place  in  his  life  which  would  allow  it  expression.  It 
could  only  live  in  the  lives  of  people  met  in  books ;  in 
sympathies  here  and  there  for  a  moment ;  in  people  who 
passed  "  like  ships  in  the  night " ;  in  moments  at  the  be- 
ginning and  end  of  holidays  when  things  would  seem  real, 
and  as  if  henceforth  they  were  going  to  be  real  every  day. 
If  it  found  expression  in  his  life,  it  would  break  up  that 
life.  Anyone  who  tried  to  make  it  find  personal  expression 
would  be  cruel ;  unless  it  were  to  turn  him  into  a  reformer 
or  the  follower  of  a  reformer.  That  could  happen  to  him. 
He  was  secretly  interested  in  adventurers  and  adventuresses. 


CHAPTER    XIX 


IT  had  evidently  been  a  great  festival.  One  of  the  events 
of  Mr.  Hancock's  summer;  designed  by  him  for  the 
happiness  and  enjoyment  of  his  friends  and  enjoyed  by 
him  in  labouring  to  those  ends.  It  was  beautiful  to  look 
back  upon ;  in  every  part ;  the  easy  journey,  the  approach 
to  the  cottage  along  the  mile  of  green-feathered  river,  the 
well-ordered  feast  in  the  large  clean  cottage ;  the  well- 
thought  out  comfort  of  the  cottage  bedrooms,  the  sight  of 
the  orchard  lit  by  Chinese  lanterns,  the  lantern-lit  boats, 
the  drifting  down  the  river  in  the  soft  moonlit  air;  the 
candle  lit  supper  table,  morning  through  the  cottage  win- 
dows, upstairs  and  down,  far  away  from  the  world,  people 
meeting  at  breakfast  like  travellers  in  a  far-off  country, 
pleased  to  see  well  known  faces  .  .  .  the  morning  on  the 
green  river  .  .  .  the  gentleness  and  kindliness  and  quiet 
dignity  of  everybody,  the  kindly  difficult  gently  jesting  dis- 
cussion of  small  personal  incidents ;  the  gentle  amiable 
strains;  the  mild  restrained  self-effacing  watchfulness  of 
the  women ;  the  uncompeting  mutual  admiration  of  the 
men ;  the  general  gratitude  of  the  group  when  one  or  other 
of  the  men  filled  up  a  space  of  time  with  a  piece  of  modestly 
narrated  personal  reminiscence.  .  .  . 


Never,  never  could  she  belong  to  that  world.     It  was  a 
perfect  little  world ;  enclosed ;  something  one  would  need 

238 


THE   TUNNEL  239 

to  be  born  and  trained  into ;  the  experience  of  it  as  an  out- 
sider was  pure  pain  and  misery;  admiration,  irritation  and 
resentment  running  abreast  in  a  fever.  Welcome  and  kind- 
liness could  do  nothing;  one's  own  straining  towards  it, 
nothing;  a  night  of  sleepless  battering  at  its  closed  doors, 
nothing.  There  was  a  secret  in  it,  in  spite  of  its  simple 
seeming  exterior ;  an  undesired  secret.  Something  to  which 
one  could  not  give  oneself  up.  Its  terms  were  terms  on 
which  one  could  not  live.  That  girl  could  live  on  them,  in 
spite  of  her  strenuous  different  life  in  the  east-end  settle- 
ment ...  in  spite  of  her  plain  dull  dress  and  red  hands. 
She  knew  the  code;  her  cheap  straw  hat  waved  graciously, 
her  hair  ruffled  about  her  head  in  soft  clouds.  Why  had  he 
never  spoken  of  her  uncle's  cottage  so  near  his  own?  She 
must  be  always  there.  When  she  appeared  in  the  surgery 
she  seemed  to  come  straight  out  of  the  east-end  ...  his 
respect  for  workers  amongst  the  poor  ...  his  general  mild 
revulsion  from  philanthropists ;  but  down  here  she  was  not 
a  philanthropist  .  .  .  outwardly  a  girl  with  blowy  hair  and 
a  wavy  hat,  smiling  in  boats,  understanding  botany  and 
fishing  .  .  .  inwardly  a  designing  female,  her  mind  lit  by 
her  cold  intellectual  "  ethical  " —  hooooo  —  the  very  sound 
of  the  word  —  "ethical  Pantheism";  cool  and  secret  and 
hateful.  "  Rather  a  nice  little  thing " ;  "  pretty  green 
dress";  nice! 


CHAPTER    XX 


MIRIAM  turned  swiftly  in  her  chair  and  looked  up. 
But  Mr.  Hancock  was  already  at  the  door.  There 
was  only  a  glimpse  of  his  unknown  figure  arrested  for  a 
moment  with  its  back  to  her  as  he  pulled  the  door  wide 
enough  to  pass  through.  The  door  closed  crisply  behind 
him  and  his  crisp  unhastening  footsteps  went  away  out  of 
hearing  along  the  thickly  carpeted  hall. 

"  Dear  me !  "  she  breathed  through  firmly  held  lips, 
standing  up.  Her  blood  was  aflame.  The  thudding  of  her 
heart  shook  the  words  upon  her  breath.  She  was  fighting 
against  something  more  than  amazement.  She  knew  that 
only  part  of  her  refused  to  believe.  In  a  part  of  her  brain 
illumination  leaving  the  shock  already  far  away  in  the  past, 
was  at  work  undisturbed,  flowing  rapidly  down  into 
thoughts  set  neatly  in  the  language  of  the  world.  She  held 
them  back,  occupying  herself  irrelevantly  about  the  room, 
catching  back  desperately  at  the  familiar  trains  of  revery 
suggested  by  its  objects;  cancelling  the  incident  and  sum- 
moning it  again  and  again  without  prejudice  or  after- 
thought. Each  time  the  shock  recurred  unchanged,  firmly 
registered,  its  quality  indubitable.  She  sat  down  at  last 
to  examine  it  and  find  her  thoughts.  Taking  a  pencil  in  a 
trembling  hand  she  began  carefully  adding  a  long  column 
of  figures.  A  system  of  adding  that  had  been  recommended 
to  her  by  the  family  mathematician  now  suggested  itself  for 
the  first  time  in  connection  with  her  own  efforts.  .  .  . 

240 


THE   TUNNEL  241 

How  dare  he? 

It  was  deliberate.  A  brusque  casual  tone,  deliberately 
put  on ;  a  tone  he  sometimes  used  to  the  boys  downstairs, 
or  to  cabmen.  How  did  he  dare  to  use  it  to  her?  It  must 
cease  instantly.  It  was  not  to  be  suffered  for  a  moment. 
Not  for  a  moment  could  she  hold  a  position  which  would 
entitle  any  one,  particularly  any  man  to  speak  to  her  in 
that  —  outrageous  —  official  tone.  Why  not?  It  was  the 
way  of  business  people  and  officials  all  the  world  over.  .  .  . 
Then  he  should  have  begun  as  he  meant  to  go  on.  .  .  . 
I  won't  endure  it  now.  No  one  has  ever  spoken  to  me  in 
that  way  —  and  no  one  shall,  with  impunity.  I  have  been 
fortunate.  They  have  spoiled  me.  ...  I  should  never 
have  come  if  I  had  found  they  had  that  sort  of  tone.  It 
was  his  difference  that  made  me  come. 


Those  two  had  talked  to  him  and  made  him  think.  The 
aunt  and  cousins  had  prepared  the  way.  But  their  hostility 
had  been  harmless.  These  two  had  approved.  That  was 
clear  at  the  week-end.  They  must  have  chaffed  him  and 
given  him  their  blessing.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  had 
thought,  sitting  alone  and  pondering  reasonably.  It  was 
he  himself  who  had  drawn  back.  He  was  quite  right.  He 
belonged  to  that  side  of  society  and  must  keep  with  them 
and  go  their  way.  Very  wise  and  right  .  .  .  but  damn  his 
insolent  complacency.  .  .  . 

1 

"  Everything  a  professional  man  does  must  stablise  his 
position."  Perhaps  that  is  true.  But  then  his  business 
relationships  must  be  business  relationships  from  the  first 
.  .  .  that  was  expected.  The  wonder  of  the  Wimpole 
Street  life  was  that  it  had  not  been  so.  Instead  of  an 
employer  there  had  been  a  sensitive  isolated  man;  pros- 


242  THE   TUNNEL 

perous  and  strong  outwardly  and  as  suffering  and  perplexed 
in  mind  as  any  one  could  be.  He  had  not  hesitated  to  seek 
sympathy. 

3 

Any  fair-minded  onlooker  would  condemn  him.  Any- 
one who  could  have  seen  the  way  he  broke  through  resist- 
ance to  social  intercourse  outside  the  practice.  He  may 
have  thought  he  was  being  kind  to  a  resourceless  girl.  It 
was  not  to  resourcelessness  that  he  had  appealed.  It  was 
not  that.     That  was  not  the  truth. 

4 

He  would  have  cynical  thoughts.  The  truth  was  that 
something  came  in  and  happened  of  itself  before  one  knew. 
A  woman  always  knows  first.  It  was  not  clear  until  Bab- 
ington.  But  there  was  a  sharp  glimpse  then.  He  must 
have  known  how  amazed  they  would  be  at  his  cycling  over 
after  he  had  neglected  them  for  years,  on  that  one  Sunday. 
They  had  concealed  their  amazement  from  him.  But  it 
was  they  who  had  revealed  things.  There  was  nothing 
imaginary  after  that  in  taking  one  wild  glance  and  leaving 
things  to  go  their  way.  Nothing.  No  one  was  to  blame. 
And  now  he  knew  and  had  considered  and  had  made  an 
absurd  reasonable  decision  and  taken  ridiculous  prompt 
action. 

A  business  relationship  ...  by  all  means.  But  he  shall 
acknowledge  and  apologise.  He  shall  explain  his  insulting 
admission  of  fear.  He  shall  admit  in  plain  speech  what 
has  accounted  for  his  change  of  manner. 

Then  that  little  horror  is  also  condemned.  She  is  not  a 
wealthy  efficient  woman  of  the  world. 


THE   TUNNEL  243 

Men  are  simply  paltry  and  silly  —  all  of  them. 

In  pain  and  fear  she  wandered  about  her  room,  listening 
for  her  bell.  It  had  gone;  the  meaning  of  their  days  had 
gone;  trust  and  confidence  could  never  come  back.  A 
door  was  closed.     His  life  was  closed  on  her  for  ever.  .  .  . 

5 

The  bell  rang  softly  in  its  usual  way.  The  incident  had 
been  an  accident;  an  illusion.  Even  so;  she  had  been 
prepared  for  it,  without  knowing  she  was  prepared,  other- 
wise she  would  not  have  understood  so  fully  and  instantly. 
If  she  had  only  imagined  it,  it  had  changed  everything, 
her  interpretation  of  it  was  prophetic;  just  as  before  he 
had  not  known  where  they  were  so  now  the  rupture  was 
imminent  whether  he  knew  it  or  no.  She  found  herself 
going  upstairs  breathing  air  thick  with  pain.  This  was 
dreadful.  .  .  .  She  could  not  bear  much  of  this.  .  .  .  The 
patient  had  gone.  He  would  be  alone.  They  would  be 
alone.  To  be  in  his  presence  would  be  a  relief  .  .  .  this 
was  appalling.  This  pain  could  not  be  endured.  The 
sight  of  the  room  holding  the  six  months  would  be  intoler- 
able. She  drew  her  face  together,  but  her  heart  was  beating 
noisily.  The  knob  of  the  door  handle  rattled  in  her  trem- 
bling hand  .  .  .  large  flat  brass  knob  with  a  row  of  grooves 
to  help  the  grasp  .  .  .  she  had  never  observed  that  before. 
The  door  opened  before  her.  She  flung  it  wider  than 
usual  and  pushed  her  way,  leaving  it  open  ...  he  was 
standing  impermanently  with  a  sham  air  of  engrossment 
at  his  writing  table  and  would  turn  on  his  heel  and  go 
the  moment  she  was  fairly  across  the  room.  Buoyant  with 
pain  she  flitted  through  the  empty  air  towards  the  distant 
bracket-table.  Each  object  upon  it  stood  marvellously  clear. 
She  reached  it  and  got  her  hands  upon  the  familiar  instru- 


244  THE    TUNNEL 

merits  ...  no  sound ;  he  had  not  moved.  The  flame  of 
the  little  spirit-lamp  burned  unwavering  in  the  complete 
stillness  .  .  .  now  was  the  moment  to  drop  thoughts  and 
anger.  Up  here  was  something  that  had  been  made  up  here, 
real  and  changeless  and  independent.  The  least  vestige  of 
tumult  would  destroy  it.  It  was  something  that  no  one 
could  touch ;  neither  his  friends  nor  he  nor  she.  They 
had  not  made  it  and  they  could  not  touch  it.  Nothing 
had  happened  to  it ;  and  he  had  stood  quietly  there  long 
enough  for  it  to  re-assert  itself.  Steadily  with  her  hands 
full  of  instruments  she  turned  towards  the  sterilising  tray. 
The  room  was  empty.  Pain  ran  glowing  up  her  arms  from 
her  burden  of  nauseating  relics  of  the  needs  of  some  com- 
placent patient  .  .  .  the  room  was  stripped,  a  west-end 
surgery,  among  scores  of  other  west-end  surgeries,  a  prison 
claiming  her  by  the  bonds  of  the  loathsome  duties  she  had 
learned. 


CHAPTER   XXI 


TO-DAY  the  familiar  handwriting  brought  no  relief. 
This  letter  must  be  the  final  explanation.  She 
opened  it,  standing  by  the  hall  table.  "  Dear  Miss  Hender- 
son—  you  are  very  persistent."  She  folded  the  letter  up 
and  walked  rapidly  out  into  the  sunshine.  The  way  down 
to  the  Euston  Road  was  very  long  and  sunlit.  It  was  rad- 
iant with  all  the  months  and  weeks  and  days.  She  thought 
of  going  on  with  the  unread  letter  and  carrying  it  into  the 
surgery,  tearing  it  up  into  the  waste  paper  basket  and  say- 
ing I  have  not  read  this.  It  is  all  right.  We  will  not 
talk  any  more.  One  thing  would  have  gone.  But  there 
would  be  a  tremendous  cheerfulness  and  independence 
and  the  memory  of  the  things  in  the  other  letters.  The 
letter  once  read  two  things  would  have  gone,  everything. 
She  paused  at  the  corner  of  the  gardens  looking  down  at 
the  pavement.  There  was  in  some  way  that  would  not 
come  quite  clear  so  much  more  at  stake  than  personal 
feelings  about  the  insulting  moment.  It  was  something 
that  stuck  into  everything,  made  everything  intolerable 
until  it  was  admitted  and  cancelled.  As  long  as  he  went 
on  hedging  and  pretending  it  was  not  there  there  could 
be  no  truth  anywhere.  It  was  something  that  must  go  out 
of  the  world,  no  matter  what  it  cost.  It  would  be  smiling 
and  cattish  and  behaving  to  drop  it.  Explained,  it  would 
be  wiped  away,  and  everything  else  with  it.  To  accept 
his  assertions  would  be  to  admit  lack  of   insight.     That 

245 


246  THE   TUNNEL 

would  be  treachery.  The  continued  spontaneity  of  manner 
which  it  would  ensure  would  be  the  false  spontaneity  that 
sat  everywhere  .  .  .  all  over  that  woman  getting  into  the 
'bus ;  brisk  cheerful  falsity.  She  glanced  through  to  the 
end  of  the  letter  ..."  foolish  gossip  which  might  end 
by  making  your  position  untenable."  Idiot.  Charming 
chivalrous  gentleman. 

I  want  to  have  it  both  ways.  To  keep  the  consideration 
and  flout  the  necessity  for  it.  No  one  shall  dare  to  protect 
me  from  gossip.  To  prove  myself  independent  and  truth- 
demanding  I  would  break  up  anything.  That's  damned 
folly.  Never  mind.  Why  didn't  he  admit  it  at  once? 
He  hated  being  questioned  and  challenged.  He  may  have 
thought  that  manner  was  "  the  kindest  way."  It  is  not 
for  him  to  choose  ways  of  treating  me.  This  cancels  the 
past.  But  it  admits  it.  Not  to  admit  the  past  would  be 
to  go  on  for  ever  in  a  false  position.  He  still  hides.  But 
he  knows  that  I  know  he  is  hiding.  Where  we  have  been 
we  have  been.  It  may  have  been  through  a  false  estimate 
of  me  to  begin  with.  That  does  not  matter.  Where  we 
have  been  we  have  been.  That  is  not  imagination.  One 
day  he  will  know  it  is  not  imagination.  There  is  some- 
thing that  is  making  me  very  glad.  A  painful  relief.  Some- 
thing forcing  me  back  upon  something.  There  is  some- 
thing that  I  have  smashed,  for  some  reason  I  do  not  know. 
It's  something  in  my  temper,  that  flares  out  about  things. 
Life  allows  no  chance  of  getting  at  the  bottom  of 
things.  .  .  . 


I  have  nothing  now  but  my  pained  self  again,  having 
violently  rushed  at  things  and  torn  them  to  bits.  It's  all 
my  fault  from  the  very  beginning.     But  I  stand  for  some- 


THE   TUNNEL  247 

thing.  I  would  dash  my  head  against  a  wall  rather  than 
deny  it.  I  make  people  hate  me  by  knowing  them  and  dash- 
ing my  head  against  the  wall  of  their  behaviour.  I  should 
never  make  a  good  chess-player.  Is  God  a  chess-player? 
I  shan't  leave  until  I  have  proved  that  no  one  can  put  me 
in  a  false  position.  There  is  something  that  is  untouched 
by  positions.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  know  what  I  had.  .  .  .  Friendship  is  fine  fine 
porcelain.     I  have  sent  a  crack  right  through  it.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Bailey  .  .  .  numbers  of  people  I  never  think  of 
would  like  to  have  me  always  there.  .  .  . 

The  sky  fitting  down  on  the  irregular  brown  vista  bore 
an  untouched  life.  .  .  .  There  were  always  mornings;  at 
work.  I  am  free  to  work  zealously  and  generously  with 
and  for  him. 

At  least  I  have  broken  up  his  confounded  complacency. 

He  will  be  embarrassed.     /  shan't. 


CHAPTER    XXII 


**  A  ND  at  fifty,  when  a  woman  is  beginning  to  sit 
.  .  .  /"A  down  intelligently  to  life  —  behold,  it  is  be- 
ginning to  be  time  to  take  leave.  .  .  ." 

That  woman  was  an  elderly  woman  of  the  world ;  but 
a  dear.  She  understood.  She  had  spent  her  life  in 
amongst  people,  having  a  life  of  her  own  going  on  all  the 
time ;  looking  out  at  something  through  the  bars,  whenever 
she  was  alone  and  sometimes  in  the  midst  of  conversations ; 
but  no  one  would  see  it,  but  people  who  knezv.  And  now 
she  was  free  to  stop  out  and  there  was  hardly  any  time  left. 
But  there  was  a  little  time.  Women  who  know  are  quite 
brisk  at  fifty.  "  A  man  must  never  be  silent  with  a  woman 
unless  he  wishes  for  the  quiet  development  of  a  relationship 
from  which  there  is  no  withdrawing  ...  if  ordinary  social 
intercourse  cannot  be  kept  up  he  must  fly  ...  in  silence 
a  man  is  an  open  book  and  unarmed.  In  speech  with  a 
man  a  woman  is  at  a  disadvantage  —  because  they  speak 
different  languages.  She  may  understand  his.  Hers  he 
will  never  speak  nor  understand.  In  pity,  or  from  other 
motives  she  must  therefore,  stammeringly,  speak  his.  He 
listens  and  is  flattered  and  thinks  he  has  her  mental  measure 
when  he  has  not  touched  even  the  fringe  of  her  conscious- 
ness. .  .  .  Outside  the  life  relationship  men  and  woman 
can  have  only  conversational,  and  again  conversational, 
interchange."  .  .  .  That's  the  truth  about  life.  Men  and 
women  never  meet.     Inside  the  life  relationship  you  can 

248 


THE   TUNNEL  249 

see  them  being  strangers  and  hostile;  one  or  the  other 
or  both,  completely  alone.  That  was  the  world.  Social 
life.  In  social  life  no  one  was  alive  but  the  lonely  women 
keeping  up  half-admiring  half-pitying  endless  conversations 
with  men,  with  one  little  ironic  part  of  themselves  .  .  . 
until  they  were  fifty  and  had  done  their  share  of  social  life. 
But  outside  the  world  —  one  could  be  alive  always.  Fifty. 
Thirty  more  years.  .  .  . 


When  I  woke  in  the  night  I  felt  nothing  but  tiredness 
and  regret  for  having  promised  to  go.  Now,  I  never  felt 
so  strong  and  happy.  This  is  how  Mag  is  feeling.  Their 
kettle  is  bumping  on  their  spirit  lamp  too.  She  loves  the 
sound  just  in  this  way,  the  Sunday  morning  sound  of  the 
kettle  with  the  air  full  of  coming  bells  and  the  doors  open- 
ing —  I'm  half-dressed,  without  any  effort  —  and  shutting 
up  and  down  the  streets  is  perfect,  again,  and  again;  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  silence,  with  the  air  coming  in  from 
the  Squares  smelling  like  the  country  is  bliss.  "  You  know, 
little  child,  you  have  an  extraordinary  capacity  for  hap- 
piness." I  suppose  I  have.  Well ;  I  can't  help  it.  ...  I 
am  frantically  frantically  happy.  I'm  up  here  alone,  frant- 
ically happy.  Even  Mag  has  to  talk  to  Jan  about  the  happy 
things.  Then  they  go,  a  little.  The  only  thing  to  do  is 
either  to  be  silent  or  make  cheerful  noises.  Bellow.  If  you 
do  that  too  much  people  don't  like  it.  You  can  only  keep 
on  making  cheerful  noises  if  you  are  quite  alone.  Perhaps 
that  is  why  people  in  life  are  always  grumbling  at  '  annoy- 
ances '  and  things ;  to  hide  how  happy  they  are  ..."  there 
is  a  dead  level  of  happiness  all  over  the  world  " —  hidden. 
People  go  on  about  things  because  they  are  always  trying 
to  remember  how  happy  they  are.  The  worse  things  are 
the  more  despairing  they  get,  because  they  are  so  happy. 


250  T  H  E   T  U  N  N  E  L 

You  know  what  I  mean.  It's  there  —  there's  nothing  else 
there.  .  .  .  But  some  people  know  more  about  it  than 
others.  Intelligent  people.  I  suppose  I  am  intelligent.  I 
can't  help  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  different.  Yes  I  do  — oh 
Lord  yes  I  do.  Mag  knows.  But  she  goes  in  amongst 
people  and  the  complaints  and  the  fuss  and  takes  sides. 
But  they  both  come  out  again;  to  be  by  themselves  and 
talk  about  it  all  .  .  .  they  sit  down  intelligently  to  life. 
.  .  .  They  do  things  that  have  nothing  to  do  with  their 
circumstances.  They  were  always  doing  things  like  this 
all  the  year  round.  Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and 
Winter  things.  They  had  done,  for  years.  The  kind  of 
things  that  made  independent  elderly  women,  widows  and 
spinsters  who  were  free  to  go  about,  have  that  look  of 
intense  appreciation  ..."  a  heart  at  leisure  from  itself 
to  soothe  and  sympathise  " ;  no,  that  type  was  always  in- 
clined to  revel  in  other  people's  troubles.  It  was  some- 
thing more  than  that.  Never  mind.  Come  on.  Hurry 
up.  Oh  —  for  a  man,  oh  for  a  man  oh  for  a  man  —  sion 
in  the  skies.  .  .  .  Wot  a  big  voice  I've  got,  Mother. 

3 
"  Cooooooo  —  ooo  —  er  —  Bill."  The  sudden  familiar 
sound  came  just  above  her  head.  Where  was  she?  What 
a  pity.  The  boys  had  wakened  her.  Then  she  had  been 
asleep!  It  was  perfect.  The  footsteps  belonging  to  the 
voice  had  passed  along  just  above  her  head ;  nice  boys,  they 
could  not  help  chi-iking  when  they  saw  the  sleeping  figures, 
but  they  did  not  mean  to  disturb.  They  had  wakened  her 
from  her  first  day-time  sleep.  Asleep!  She  had  slept  in 
broad  sunlight  at  the  foot  of  the  little  cliff.  Waking  in 
the  day  time  is  perfect  happiness.  To  wake  suddenly  and 
fully,  nowhere ;  in  paradise ;  and  then  to  see  sharply  with 
large  clear  strong  eyes  the  things  you  were  looking  at  when 


THE   TUNNEL  251 

you  fell  asleep.  She  lay  perfectly  still.  Perhaps  the  girls 
were  asleep.  Presently  they  would  all  be  sitting  up  again 
and  she  would  have  to  begin  once  more  the  tiring  effort  to 
be  as  clever  as  they  were.  But  it  would  be  a  little  differ- 
ent now  that  they  had  all  lain  stretched  out  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliffs  asleep.  She  was  changed.  Something  had  hap- 
pened since  she  had  fallen  asleep  4  disappointment  in  the 
east-coast  sea  and  the  little  low  cliff,  wondering  why  she 
could  not  see  and  feel  them  like  the  seas  and  cliffs  of  her 
childhood.  She  could  see  and  feel  them  now,  as  long  as 
no  one  spoke  and  the  first  part  of  the  morning  remained 
far  away.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  drifted  drowsily  back 
to  the  moment  of  being  awakened  by  the  sudden  cry.  In 
the  instant  before  her  mind  had  slid  back  and  she  had  lis- 
tened to  the  muffled  footsteps  thudding  along  the  turf  of 
the  low  cliff  above  her  head,  waiting  angrily  and  anxiously 
for  further  disturbance,  she  had  been  perfectly  alive,  see- 
ing; perfect  things  all  round  her,  no  beginning  or  ending 
.  .  .  there  had  been  moments  like  that,  years  ago,  in  gar- 
dens, by  seas  and  cliffs.  Her  mind  wandered  back  amongst 
these ;  calling  up  each  one  with  perfect  freshness.  They 
were  all  the  same.  In  each  one  she  had  felt  exactly  the 
same;  outside  life,  untouched  by  anything,  free.  She  had 
thought  they  belonged  to  the  past,  to  childhood  and  youth. 
In  childhood  she  had  thought  each  time  that  the  world  had 
just  begun  and  would  always  be  like  that;  later  on,  she  now 
remembered,  she  had  always  thought  when  such  a  moment 
came  that  it  would  be  the  last  and  clung  to  it  with  wide 
desperate  staring  eyes  until  tears  came  and  she  had  turned 
away  from  some  great  open  scene  with  a  strong  conscious 
body  flooded  suddenly  by  a  strong  warm  tide  to  the  sad 
dark  world  to  live  for  the  rest  of  her  time  upon  a  memory. 
But  the  moment  she  had  just  lived  was  the  same,  it  was  ex- 
actly the  same  as  the  first  one  she  could  remember,  the 


252  THE    TUNNEL 

moment  of  standing,  alone,  in  bright  sunlight  on  a  narrow 
gravel  path  in  the  garden  at  Babington  between  two  banks 
of  flowers,  the  flowers  level  with  her  face  and  large  bees 
swinging  slowly  to  and  fro  before  her  face  from  bank  to 
bank,  many  sweet  smells  coming  from  the  flowers  and 
amongst  them  a  strange  pleasant  smell  like  burnt  paper. 
...  It  was  the  same  moment.  She  saw  it  now  in  just  the 
same  way ;  not  remembering  going  into  the  garden  or  any 
end  to  being  in  the  bright  sun  between  the  blazing  flowers, 
the  two  banks  linked  by  the  slowly  swinging  bees,  nothing 
else  in  the  world,  no  house  behind  the  little  path,  no  garden 
beyond  it.  Yet  she  must  somehow  have  got  out  of  the 
house  and  through  the  shrubbery  and  along  the  plain  path 
between  the  lawns. 

4 

All  the  six  years  at  Babington  were  the  blazing  alley  of 
flowers  without  beginning  or  end,  no  winters,  no  times  of 
day  or  changes  to  be  seen.  There  were  other  memories, 
quarrelling  with  Harriett  in  the  nursery,  making  paper  pills, 
listening  to  the  bells  on  Sunday  afternoon,  a  bell  and  a 
pomegranate,  a  bell  or  a  pomegranate  round  about  the 
hem  of  Aaron's  robe,  the  squirting  of  water  into  one's 
aching  ear,  the  taste  of  an  egg  after  scarlet  fever,  the  witch 
in  the  chimney,  cowslips  balls,  a  lobster  walking  upstairs 
on  its  tail,  dancing  in  a  ring  with  grown-ups,  the  smell  of 
steam  and  soap  the  warm  smell  of  the  bath  towel,  Martha's 
fingers  warming  one's  feet,  her  lips  kissing  one's  back, 
something  going  to  happen  to-morrow,  crackling  green 
paper  clear  like  glass  and  a  gold  paper  fringe  in  your  hand 
before  the  cracker  went  off;  an  eye  blazing  out  of  the  wall 
at  night  "  Thou  God  seest  me,"  apple  pasties  in  the  garden ; 
coming  up  from  the  mud  pies  round  the  summer  house  to 
bed,  being  hit  on  the  nose  by  a  swing  and  going  indoors 


THE   TUNNEL  253 

screaming  at  the  large  blots  of  blood  on  the  white  pinafore, 
climbing  up  the  cucumber  frame  and  falling  through  the 
glass  at  the  top,  blowing  bubbles  in  the  hay-loft  and  singing 
Rosalie  the  Prairie  Flower,  and  whole  pieces  of  life  indoors 
and  out  coming  up  bit  by  bit  as  one  thought,  but  all  mixed 
with  sadness  and  pain  and  bothers  with  people.  They  did 
not  come  first  or  without  thought.  The  blazing  alley  came 
first  without  thought  or  effort  of  memory.  The  flowers 
all  shining  separate  and  distinct  and  all  together,  indistinct 
in  a  blaze.  She  gazed  at  them  .  .  .  sweet  Williams  of 
many  hues,  everlasting  flowers  gold  and  yellow  and  brown 
and  brownish  purple,  pinks  and  petunias  and  garden  daisies 
white  and  deep  crimson  .  .  .  then  memory  was  happiness, 
one  happiness  linked  to  the  next.  ...  It  was  the  same 
already  with  Germany  .  .  .  the  sunny  happy  beautiful 
things  came  first  ...  in  a  single  glance  the  whole  of  the 
time  in  Germany  was  beautiful,  golden  happy  light,  and 
people  happy  in  the  golden  light,  garlands  of  music,  and 
the  happy  ringing  certainty  of  voices,  no  matter  what 
they  said,  the  way  the  whole  of  life  throbbed  with  beauty 
when  the  hush  of  prayers  was  on  the  roomful  of  girls  .  .  . 
the  wonderful  house,  great  dark  high  wooden  doors  in  the 
distance  thrown  silently  open,  great  silent  space  of  sun- 
light between  them,  high  windows,  alight  against  the  shad- 
ows of  rooms ;  the  happy  confidence  of  the  open  scene. 
.  .  .  Germany  was  a  party,  a  visit,  a  gift.  It  had  been,  in 
spite  of  everything  in  the  difficult  life,  what  she  had 
dreamed  it  when  she  went  off;  all  woods  and  forests  and 
music  .  .  .  happy  Hermann  and  Dorothea  happiness  in  the 
summer  twilight  of  German  villages.  It  had  become  that 
now.  The  heart  of  a  German  town  was  that,  making  one 
a  little  homesick  for  it.  .  .  .  The  impulse  to  go  and  the 
going  had  been  right.  It  was  part  of  something  .  .  .  with 
a  meaning;  perhaps  there  is  happiness  only  in  the  things 


254  THE    TUNNEL 

one  does  deliberately  without  a  visible  reason;  drifting  off 
to  Germany,  because  it  called ;  coming  here  to-day  ...  in 
freedom.  If  you  are  free  you  are  alive  .  .  .  nothing  that 
happens  in  the  part  of  your  life  that  is  not  free,  the  part 
you  do  and  are  paid  for,  is  alive.  To-day,  because  I  am 
free  I  am  the  same  person  as  I  was  when  I  was  there,  but 
much  stronger  and  happier  because  I  know  it.  As  long  as 
I  can  sometimes  feel  like  this  nothing  has  mattered.  Life 
is  a  chain  of  happy  moments  that  cannot  die. 
"  Damn  those  boys  —  they  woke  me  up." 
"  Did  they  Mag;  so  they  did  me;  did  you  dream?  "  Per- 
haps Mag  would  say  something  .  .  .  but  people  never 
seemed  to  think  anything  of  "  dropping  off  to  sleep." 

"  I  drempt  that  I  dwelt  in  Marble  Halls ;  you  awake  von 
Bohlen?" 

"  I  don't  quite  know." 

"  But  speaking  tentatively.  .  .  ." 

"  A  long  lean  mizzerable  tentative " 

"  I  perceive  that  you  are  still  asleep.  Shall  I  sing  it  — 
"  I  durr-e-empt  I  da-w^-elt  in  ma-ha-har-ble  halls." 

"  Cooooo  —  oooo  —  er  Bill."  The  response  sounded 
faintly  from  far  away  on  the  cliffs. 

"  Cooooo  —  ooo  —  er  Micky  "  warbled  Miriam.  "  I  like 
that  noise.  When  they  are  further  off  I  shall  try  doing  it 
very  loud  to  get  the  proper  crack." 

"  I  think  we'd  better  leave  her  here,  don't  you  von 
Bohlen?" 

Was  it  nearly  tea-time?  Would  either  of  them  soon 
mention  tea?  The  beauty  of  the  rocks  had  faded.  Yet, 
if  they  ceased  being  clever  and  spoke  of  the  beauty,  it  would 
not  come  back.  The  weariness  of  keeping  things  up  went 
on.  When  the  gingernuts  and  lemonade  were  at  last  set 
out  upon  the  sand,  they  shamed  Miriam  with  the  sense  of 
her   long   preoccupation    with   them.      The   girls    had    not 


THE   TUNNEL  255 

thought  of  them.  They  never  seemed  to  flag  in  their  way 
of  talking.  Perhaps  it  was  partly  their  regular  meals.  It 
was  dreadful  always  to  be  the  first  one  to  want  food.  .  .  . 
But  she  was  happier  down  here  with  them  than  she 
would  have  been  alone. 

Going  alone  for  a  moment  in  the  twilight  across  the 
little  scrub,  as  soon  as  she  had  laughed  enough  over  leaving 
the  room  in  the  shelter  of  a  gorse  bush,  she  recovered  the 
afternoon's  happiness.  There  was  a  little  fence,  bricks 
were  lying  scattered  about  and  half-finished  houses  stood 
along  the  edge  of  the  scrub.  But  a  soft  land-breeze  was 
coming  across  the  common  carrying  the  scent  of  gorse ; 
the  silence  of  the  sea  reminded  her  of  its  presence  beyond 
the  cliffs ;  her  own  gorse-scented  breeze,  and  silent  sea  and 
sunlit  cliffs. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 


COOL  with  sound  short  sleep  she  rose  early,  the  mem- 
ory of  yesterday  giving  a  Sunday  leisure  to  the 
usual  anxious  hurry  of  breakfast.  She  was  strong  with 
her  own  possessions.  Wimpole  Street  held  nothing  but  her 
contract  of  duties  to  fulfil.  These  she  could  see  in  a  clear 
vexatious  tangle,  against  the  exciting  on-coming  of  every- 
body's summer;  an  excitement  that  was  enough  in  itself. 
Patients  were  pouring  out  of  town  —  in  a  fortnight  the 
Orlys  would  be  gone ;  all  Mr.  Orly's  accounts  must  be  out 
by  then.  In  a  month  Mr.  Hancock  would  go.  For  a 
month  before  her  own  holiday  there  would  be  almost  noth- 
ing to  do.  If  everyone's  accounts  were  examined  before 
then,  she  could  get  them  off  at  leisure  during  that  month 
.  .  .  then  for  this  month  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  the 
lessening  daily  duties  and  to  get  everyone  to  examine  ac- 
counts; then  the  house  to  herself,  with  only  Mr.  Leyton 
there ;  the  cool  ease  of  summer  in  her  room,  and  her  own 
month  ahead. 


The  little  lavatory  with  its  long  high  window  sending 
in  the  light  from  across  the  two  sets  of  back  to  back  tree- 
shaded  Bloomsbury  gardens,  its  little  shabby  open  sink- 
cupboard  facing  her  with  its  dim  unpolished  taps  and  the 
battered  enamel  cans  on  its  cracked  and  blistered  wooden 
top  became  this  morning  one  of  her  own  rooms,  a  happy 

256 


THE   TUNNEL  257 

little  corner  in  the  growing  life  that  separated  her  from 
Wimpole  Street.     There  were  no  corners  such  as  this  in 
the  beautiful  clever  Hampstead  house;  no  remote  shabby 
happy  corners  at  all;  nothing  brown  and  old  and  at  peace. 
Between  him  and  his  house  were  his  housekeeper  and  ser- 
vants; between  him  and  his  life  was  his  profession  .  .  . 
and  the  complex  group  of   people  with   whom   he   must 
perpetually   deal,  with  whom  he   dealt  in  alternations  of 
intimacy  and  formality.     He  was  still  at  his  best  in  his 
practice.     That  was  still  his  life.     There  was  nothing  more 
real  as  yet  in  his  life  than  certain  times  and  moments  in  his 
room  at  Wimpole  Street.  .  .  .  Life  had  answered  no  other 
questions  for  him.  .  .  .  His  thought-life  and  his  personal 
life  were  troubled  and  dark  and  cold  ...  in  spite  of  his 
attachment   to   some   of   his    family   group  ...  he    could 
buy  beautiful  things,  and  travel  freely  in  his  leisure  .  .  . 
perhaps   that,    those   two  glorious    things,    were    sufficient 
compensation.     But  there  was  something  wrong  about  them ; 
they  gave  a  false  sense  of  power  .  .  .  the  way  all  those 
people   smiled  at  each  other  when  they  went  about  and 
bought  things,  picked  up  a  fine  thing  at  a  bargain,  or  gave 
a  price  whose  size  they  were  proud  of  .  .  .  thinking  other 
people's  thoughts  .  .  .  apart  from  this  worldly  side  of  his 
life,  he  was  entirely  at  Wimpole  Street;  the  whole  of  him; 
an  open  book;  there  was  nothing  else  in  his  life,  yet  .  .  . 
his  holiday  with  those  two  men  —  even  the  soft-voiced  sen- 
suous one  who  would  quote  poetry  and  talk  romantically 
and  cynically  about  women  in  the  evenings  —  would  bring 
nothing  else.     Yet  he  was  counting  upon  it  so  much  that 
he  could  not  help  unbending  about  his  boat  and  his  boots 
and  his  filters  .  .  .  perhaps  all  that  was  the  best  of  the  holi- 
day —  men  were  never  tired  of  talking  about  the  way  they 
did  this  and  that  .  .  .  clever  difficult  things  that  made  all 
the  difference;  but  they  missed  all  the  rest.     Even  when 


258  THE   TUNNEL 

they  sat  about  smoking  their  minds  were  fussing.  The 
women  in  their  parties  dressed,  and  smiled  and  appreciated. 
There  would  be  no  real  happiness  in  such  a  party  .  .  .  ex- 
cept when  the  women  were  alone,  doing  the  things  with  no 
show  about  them.  Supposing  I  were  able  to  go  anywhere 
on  this  page  .  .  .  Ippington  .  .  .  295m;  pop.  760  .  .  . 
trains  to  Tudworth  and  thence  two  or  three  times  daily  .  .  . 
Spray  Bay  Hotel  ...  A  sparrow  cheeped  on  the  window 
sill  and  fluttered  away.  The  breath  of  happiness  poured  In 
at  the  high  window ;  all  the  places  in  the  railway  guide  told 
over  their  charms ;  mountains  and  lakes  and  rivers,  innum- 
erable strips  of  coast,  village  streets  to  walk  along  for  the 
first  time,  leading  out  .  .  .  going,  somewhere,  in  a  train. 
Standing  on  tiptoe  she  gazed  her  thoughts  across  the  two 
garden  spaces  towards  the  grimed  backs  of  the  large  brown 
houses.  Why  was  one  allowed  to  be  so  utterly  happy? 
There  it  was  .  .  .  happily  here  and  happily  going  away  .  .  . 
away. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 


'TT^HERE;  how  d'ye  like  that,  eh?     A  liberal  educa- 
tion in  twelve  volumes  with  an  index.     Read  them 
when  ye  want  to.     See  ?  "  .  .  . 

They  looked  less  set  up  like  that  in  a  row  than  when 
they  had  lain  about  on  the  floor  of  the  den  .  .  .  taking 
up  Dante  and  Beethoven  at  tea  time. 


"Books  posted?  I  wonder  I'm  not  more  rushed.  I  say 
—  v'you  greased  all  Hancock's  and  the  Pater's  instru- 
ments ?  " 

He  knows  I'm  slacking  .  .  .  he'll  tell  the  others  when 
they  come  back.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Leyton's  door  shut  with  a  bang.  He  would  be  sitting 
reading  the  newspaper  until  the  next  patient  came.  The 
eternal  sounds  of  laughter  and  dancing  came  up  from  the 
kitchen.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  perfectly  still.  Her 
miserable  hand  reopened  the  last  page  of  the  Index.  There 
were  five  or  six  more  entries  under  "  Woman." 

3 

If  one  could  only  burn  all  the  volumes ;  stop  the  publica- 
tion of  them.  But  it  was  all  books,  all  the  literature  in  the 
world,  right  back  to  Juvenal  .  .  .  whatever  happened,  if  it 
could  all  be  avenged  by  somebody  in  some  way,  there  was 
all   that  .  .  .  the    classics,    the    finest    literature, — "  unsur- 

259 


260  T  H  E    TUNNEL 

passed."  Education  would  always  mean  coming  in  contact 
with  all  that.  Schoolboys  got  their  first  ideas.  .  .  .  How 
could  Newnham  and  Girton  women  endure  it?  How  could 
they  go  on  living  and  laughing  and  talking? 

And  the  modern  men  were  the  worst  ..."  we  can 
now,  with  all  the  facts  in  our  hands  sit  down  and  examine 
her  at  our  leisure."  There  was  no  getting  away  from  the 
scientific  facts  .  .  .  inferior;  mentally,  morally,  intellec- 
tually and  physically  .  .  .  her  development  arrested  in  the 
interest  of  her  special  functions  .  .  .  reverting  later  to- 
wards the  male  type  ...  old  women  with  deep  voices  and 
hair  on  their  faces  .  .  .  leaving  off  where  boys  of  eighteen 
began.  If  that  is  true  everything  is  as  clear  as  daylight. 
"  Woman  is  not  undeveloped  man  but  diverse  "  falls  to 
pieces.  Woman  is  undeveloped  man  ...  if  one  could  die 
of  the  loathsome  visions  ...  I  must  die.  I  can't  go  on  liv- 
ing in  it  .  .  .  the  whole  world  full  of  creatures;  half-human. 
And  I  am  one  of  the  half -human  ones  or  shall  be  if  I  don't 
stop  now. 

Boys  and  girls  were  much  the  same  .  .  .  women  stopped 
being  people  and  went  off  into  hideous  processes.  What 
for?  What  was  it  all  for?  Development.  The  wonders 
of  science.  The  wonders  of  science  for  women  are  nothing 
but  gynaecology  —  all  those  frightful  operations  in  the 
"  British  Medical  Journal  "  and  those  jokes  —  the  hundred 
golden  rules.  .  .  .  Sacred  functions  .  .  .  highest  possibili- 
ties .  .  .  sacred  for  what  ?  The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle 
rules  the  world?  The  Future  of  the  Race?  What  world? 
What  race?     Men.  .  .  .  Nothing  but  men;  forever. 

If  by  one  thought  all  the  men  in  the  world  could  be 
stopped,  shaken  and  slapped.     There  must,  somewhere  be 


THE   TUNNEL  261 

some  power  that  could  avenge  it  all  .  .  .  but  if  these  men 
were  right  there  was  not.  Nothing  but  Nature  and  her 
decrees.  Why  was  nature  there?  Who  started  it?  If 
nature  "  took  good  care  "  this  and  that  .  .  .  there  must 
be  somebody.  If  there  was  a  trick  there  must  be  a  trickster. 
If  there  is  a  god  who  arranged  how  things  should  be  between 
men  and  women  and  just  let  it  go  and  go  on  I  have  no 
respect  for  him.  I  should  like  to  give  him  a  piece  of  my 
mind.  .  .  . 

It  will  all  go  on  as  long  as  women  are  stupid  enough  to 
go  on  bringing  men  into  the  world  .  .  .  even  if  civilised 
women  stop  the  colonials  and  primitive  races  would  go  on. 
It  was  a  nightmare. 

They  invent  a  legend  to  put  the  blame  for  the  existence 
of  humanity  on  woman  and  if  she  wants  to  stop  it  they 
talk  about  the  wonders  of  civilisation  and  the  sacred  re- 
sponsibilities of  motherhood.  They  can't  have  it  both  ways. 
They  also  say  women  are  not  logical. 

They  despise  women  and  they  want  to  go  on  living  —  to 
reproduce  —  themselves.  None  of  their  achievements,  no 
"  civilisation,"  no  art,  no  science  can  redeem  that.  There 
is  no  pardon  possible  for  man.  The  only  answer  to  them 
is  suicide ;  all  women  ought  to  agree  to  commit  suicide. 

4 
The  torment  grew  as  the  August  weeks  passed.  There 
were  strange  interesting  things  unexpectedly  everywhere. 
Streets  of  great  shuttered  houses,  their  window,  boxes  flow- 
erless,  all  grey  cool  and  quiet  and  untroubled  on  a  day  of 
cool  rain ;  the  restaurants  were  no  longer  crowded ;  tortur- 
ing thought  ranged  there  unsupported,  goaded  to  madness, 


262  T  H  E    T  U  N  N  E  L 

just  a  mad  feverish  swirling  in  the  head,  ranging  out,  driven 
back  by  the  vacant  eyes  of  little  groups  of  people  from  the 
country.  In  familiar  people  appeared  in  the  parks  and 
streets  talking  and  staring  eagerly  about,  women  in  felt 
boat-shaped  hats  trimmed  with  plaid  ribbons  —  Americans. 
They  looked  clever  —  and  ignorant  of  worrying  thoughts. 
Men  carried  their  parcels.  But  it  was  just  the  same.  It 
was  impossible  to  imagine  these  dried,  yellow-faced  women 
with  babies.  But  if  they  liked  all  the  fuss  and  noise  and 
talk  as  much  as  they  seemed  to  do.  ...  If  they  did  not, 
what  were  they  doing?  What  was  everybody  doing?  So 
busily. 

5 

Sleeplessness  and  every  day  a  worse  feeling  of  illness. 
Every  day  the  new  torture.  Every  night  the  dreaming 
and  tossing  in  the  fierce,  stifling,  dusty  heat,  the  awful 
waking,  to  know  that  presently  the  unbearable  human 
sounds  would  begin  again ;  the  torment  of  walking  through 
the  streets  the  solitary  torment  of  leisure  to  read  again  in 
the  stillness  of  the  office ;  the  moments  of  hope  of  finding 
a  fresh  meaning;  hope  of  having  misread. 


There  was  nothing  to  turn  to.  Books  were  poisoned. 
Art.  All  the  achievements  of  men  were  poisoned  at  the 
root.  The  beauty  of  nature  was  tricky  feminity.  The 
animal  world  was  cruelty.  Humanity  was  based  on  cruelty. 
Jests  and  amusements  were  tragic  distractions  from  tragedy. 
Religion  was  the  only  hope.  But  even  there  there  was  no 
hope  for  women.  No  future  life  could  heal  the  degradation 
of  having  been  a  woman.  Religion  in  the  world  had  nothing 
but  insults  for  women.  Christ  was  a  man.  If  it  was  true 
that  he  was  God  taking  on  humanity  —  he  took  on  male 


THE   TUNNEL  263 

humanity  .  .  .  and  the  people  who  explained  him,  St.  Paul 
and  the  priests,  the  Anglicans  and  the  non-Conformists 
it  was  the  same  story  everywhere.  Even  if  religion  could 
answer  science  and  prove  it  wrong  there  was  no  hope,  for 
women.  And  no  intelligent  person  can  prove  science  wrong. 
Life  is  poisoned,  for  women,  at  the  very  source.  Science 
is  true  and  will  find  out  more  and  more  and  things  will  grow 
more  and  more  horrible.  Space  is  full  of  dead  worlds. 
The  world  is  cooling  and  dying.     Then  why  not  stop  now? 

7 

"  Nature's  great  Salic  Law  will  never  be  repealed." 
"  Women  can  never  reach  the  highest  places  in  civilisation." 
Thomas  Henry  Huxley.  With  side-whiskers.  A  bouncing 
complacent  walk.  Thomas  Henry  Huxley.  {Thomas 
Ztabington  Macazday.)  The  same  sort  of  walk.  Eminent 
men.  Revelling  in  their  cleverness.  "  The  Lord  has  de- 
livered him  into  my  hand."  He  did  not  believe  in  any  fu- 
ture for  anybody.  But  he  built  his  life  up  complacently 
on  home  and  family  life  while  saying  all  those  things  about 
women,  lived  on  them  and  their  pain,  ate  their  food,  en- 
joyed the  comforts  they  made  .  .  .  and  wrote  conceited 
letters  to  his  friends  about  his  achievements  and  his  stomach 
and  his  feelings. 

8 

What  is  it  in  me  that  stands  back?  Why  can't  it  explain? 
My  head  will  burst  if  it  can't  explain.  If  I  die  now  in 
wild  anger  it  only  makes  the  thing  more  laughable  on  the 
whole.  .  .  .  That  old  man  lives  quite  alone  in  a  little  gas- 
lit  lodging.  When  he  comes  out  he  is  quite  alone.  There 
is  nothing  touching  him  anywhere.  He  will  go  quietly 
on  like  that  till  he  dies.  But  he  is  me.  I  saw  myself  in 
his  eyes  that  day.     But  he  must  have  money.     He  can  live 


264  THE    TUNNEL 

like  that  with  nothing  to  do  but  read  and  think  and  roam 
about  because  he  has  money.  It  isn't  fair.  Some  woman 
cleans  his  room  and  does  his  laundry.  His  thoughts  about 
women  are  awful.  It's  the  best  way  .  .  .  but  I've  made 
all  sorts  of  plans  for  the  holidays.  After  that  I  will  save 
and  never  see  anybody  and  never  stir  out  of  Bloomsbury. 
The  woman  in  black  works.  It's  only  in  the  evenings  she 
can  roam  about  seeing  nothing.  But  the  people  she  works 
for  know  nothing  about  her.  She  knows.  She  is  sweeter 
than  he.     She  is  sweet.     I  like  her.     But  he  is  more  me. 


CHAPTER    XXV 


THE  room  still  had  the  same  radiant  air.  Nothing 
looked  worn.  There  was  not  a  spot  anywhere. 
Bowls  of  flowers  stood  about.  The  Coalport  tea  service 
was  set  out  on  the  little  black  table.  The  draw-thread  work 
table  cover.  .  .  .  She  had  arranged  the  flowers.  That  was 
probably  all  she  did ;  going  in  and  out  of  the  garden,  in 
the  sun,  picking  flowers.  The  Artist's  Model  and  The 
Geisha  and  the  Strand  Musicals  still  lay  about;  the  curious 
new  smell  came  from  the  inside  of  the  piano.  But  there 
was  this  dreadful  tiredness.  It  was  dreadful  that  the 
tiredness  should  come  nearer  than  the  thought  of  Harriett. 
A  pallid  worried  disordered  face  looked  back  from  the  strip 
of  glass  in  the  overmantel.  No  need  to  have  looked.  Al- 
ways now,  away  from  London,  there  was  this  dreadful  real- 
isation of  fatigue,  dreadful  empty  sense  of  worry  and  hurry 
.  .  .  feeling  so  strong  riding  down  through  London,  every- 
thing dropping  away,  nothing  to  think  of ;  off  and  free,  the 
holiday  ahead,  nothing  but  lovely,  lonely  freedom  all  round 
one. 


Perhaps  Harriett  would  be  nervous  and  irritable.  She 
had  much  more  reason  to  be.  But  even  if  she  were  it 
would  be  no  good.  It  would  be  impossible  to  conceal 
this  frightful  fatigue  and  nervousness.  Harriett  must  un- 
derstand at  once  how  battered  and  abject  one  was.     And 

265 


266  THE   TUNNEL 

it  was  a  misrepresentation.  Harriet  knew  nothing  of  all 
one  had  come  from  ;  all  one  was  going  to  in  the  distance. 
Maddening.  .  .  .  Lovely ;  how  rich  and  good  they  looked, 
more  honest  than  those  in  the  London  shops.  Harriet  or 
Mrs.  Thimm  or  Emma  had  ordered  them  from  some  con- 
fectioner in  Chiswick.  Fancy  being  able  to  buy  anything 
like  that  without  thinking.  How  well  they  went  with  the 
black  piano  and  the  Coalport  tea-service  and  the  garden 
light  coming  in.  Gerald  did  not  think  that  women  were 
inferior  or  that  Harriet  was  a  dependent.  .  .  .  But  Gerald 
did  not  think  at  all.  He  knew  nothing  was  too  good  for 
Harriett.  Oo,  /  dunno,  she  would  say  with  a  laugh.  She 
thought  all  men  were  duffers.  Perhaps  that  was  the  best 
way.  Selfish  babies.  But  Gerald  was  not  selfish.  He 
would  never  let  Harriet  wash  up  if  he  were  there.  He 
would  never  pretend  to  be  ignorant  of  '  mysteries  '  to  get 
out  of  doing  things.  I  get  out  of  doing  things  —  in  houses. 
But  women  won't  let  me  do  things.  They  all  know  I  want 
to  be  mooning  about.  How  do  they  know  it?  What  is  it? 
But  they  like  me  to  be  there.  And  now  in  houses  there's 
always  this  fearful  worry  and  tiredness.  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  it? 

Heavy  footsteps  came  slowly  downstairs. 

"  I  put  tea  indoors.  I  thought  Miss  Miriam'd  be  warm 
after  her  ride. 

A  large  undulating  voice  with  a  shrewd  consoling  glance 
in  it.  She  must  have  come  to  the  kitchen  door  to  meet 
Harriett  in  the  hall. 

"  Yes,  I'ke  spect  she  will."  It  was  the  same  voice  she 
had  had  in  the  nursery,  resonant  with  practice  in  speaking 
to  new  people.     Miriam  felt  tears  coming. 

"  Hullo,  you  porking?     Isn't  it  porking?" 

"  Simply  porked  to  death  my  dear.  Forked  to  Death  " 
bawled  Miriam  softly,  refreshed  and  delighted.     Harriett 


THE   TUNNEL  267 

was  still  far  off,  but  she  felt  as  if  she  had  touched  her. 
Even  the  end  of  the  awful  nine  months  was  not  changing 
her.  Her  freshly  shampooed  hair  had  a  leisurely  glint. 
There  was  colour  in  her  cheeks.  She  surreptitiously  rubbed 
her  own  hot  face.  Her  appearance  would  improve  now  with 
every  hour.  By  the  evening  she  would  be  her  old  self. 
After  tea  she  would  play  The  Artist's  Model  and  The 
Geisha. 

"  Let's  have  tea.     I  was  asleep.     I  didn't  hear  you  come." 

She  sank  into  one  of  the  large  chairs,  her  thin  accordion 
pleated  black  silk  tea-gown  billowing  out  round  her  squared 
little  body.  Even  her  shoulders  looked  broader  and  squarer. 
From  the  little  pleated  white  chiffon  chemisette  her  radiant 
firm  little  head  rose  up,  her  hair  glinting  under  the  light  of 
the  window  behind  her.  She  looked  so  fine  —  such  a  "  fine 
spectacle  " —  and  seemed  so  strong.  How  did  she  feel  ? 
Mrs.  Thimm  brought  the  teapot.  The  moment  she  had 
gone  Harriett  handed  the  rich  cakes.  Mrs.  Thimm  beam- 
ing, shedding  strong  beams  of  happiness  and  approval.  .  .  . 

"  Come  on "  said  Harriett.  "  Let's  tuck  in.  There's 
some  thin  bread  and  butter  somewhere  but  I  can't  eat  any- 
thing but  these  things." 

"Can't  you?" 

"  The  last  time  I  went  up  to  town  Mrs.  Bollingdon  and 
I  had  six  between  us  at  Slater's  and  when  we  got  back  we 
had  another  tea." 

"  Fancy  you!" 

"  I  know.     I  can't  'elp  it." 

"  I  can't  'elp  it,  Micky.     Love\&y  b-hird." 

The  fourth  cup  of  creamy  tea;  Harriett's  firm  ringed 
hand ;  the  gleaming  serene  world ;  the  sunlit  flower-filled 
garden  shaded  at  the  far  end  by  the  large  tree  the  other 
side  of  the  fence  coming  in,  one  with  the  room ;  the  sun 
going  to  set  and  bring  the  evening  freshness  and  rise  to- 


268  T  H  E    T  U  N  N  E  L 

morrow.  Twenty-eight  leisurely  teas,  twenty-eight  long 
days;  a  feeling  of  strength  and  drowsiness.  Nothing  to 
do  but  clean  the  bicycle  and  pump  up  the  tyres  on  the  lawn, 
to-morrow.  Nothing  —  after  carrying  the  bicycle  from  the 
coal  cellar  up  the  area  steps  and  through  the  house  into  the 
Tansley  Street  back  yard.  Nothing  more  but  setting  out 
after  two  nights  of  sleep  in  a  cool  room. 

3 

"That  your  machine  in  the  yard,  Mirry?" 

"  Yes;  I've  hired  it,  thirty  bob  for  the  whole  month." 

"  Well,  if  you're  going  a  sixty-mile  ride  on  it  I  advise 
you  to  tighten  up  the  nuts  a  bit." 

"  I  will  if  you'll  show  me  where  they  are.  I've  got  a 
lovely  spanner.     Did  you  look  in  the  wallet?" 

"  I'll  have  a  look  at  it  all  over  if  you  like." 

"  Oh  Gerald  you  saint.  .  .  ." 

"  Now  he's  happy,"  said  Harriett  as  Gerald's  white  flan- 
nelled figure  flashed  into  the  sunlight  and  disappeared 
through  the  yard  gate. 

"  Ph  —  how  hot  it  is;  it's  this  summer-house." 

"  Let's  go  outside  if  you  like,"  said  Miriam  lazily,  "  it 
seems  to  me  simply  perfect  in  here." 

"  It's  all  right  —  ph  —  it's  hot  everywhere,"  said  Harriett 
languidly.  She  mopped  her  face.  Her  face  emerged  from 
her  handkerchief  fever-flushed,  the  eyes  large  and  dark  and 
brilliant ;  her  lips  full  and  drawn  in  and  down  at  the  corners 
with  a  look  of  hopeless  anxiety. 

Anger  flushed  through  Miriam.  Harriett  at  nineteen,  in 
the  brilliant  beauty  of  the  summer  afternoon  facing  hope- 
less fear. 

"  That's  an  awfully  pretty  dress  "  she  faltered  nervously. 

Harriett  set  her  lips  and  stretched  both  arms  along  the 
elbows  of  her  basket  chair. 


THE   TUNNEL  269 

"  You  could  have  it  made  into  an  evening  gown." 

"  I  loathe  the  very  sight  of  it.  I  shall  burn  it  the  minute 
I've  done  with  it." 

It  was  awful  that  anything  that  looked  so  charming  could 
seem  like  that. 

"  D'you  feel  bad  ?     Is  it  so  awful  ?  " 

"  I'm  all  right,  but  I  feel  as  if  I  were  bursting.  I  wish 
it  would  just  hurry  up  and  be  over." 

"  I  think  you're  simply  splendid." 

"  I  simply  don't  think  about  it.  You  don't  think  about 
it  except  now  and  again  when  you  realise  you've  got  to  go 
through  it  and  then  you  go  hot  all  over." 

'  The  head's  a  bit  wobbly,"  said  Gerald  riding  round  the 
lawn. 

"  Does  that  matter?" 

1  Well,  it  doesn't  make  it  any  easier  to  ride,  especially 
with  this  great  bundle  on  the  handle-bars.  You  want  a 
luggage-carrier." 

"  I  daresay.  I  say  Gerald,  show  me  the  nuts  to-morrow, 
not  now." 

The  machine  was  lying  upside  down  on  the  lawn  with 
its  back  wheel  revolving  slowly  in  the  air. 

"  The  front  wheel's  out  of  the  true." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  saddle?  " 

"  The  saddle's  all  right  enough." 

"  It's  a  Brooks's,  B.  40 ;  about  the  best  you  can  have.  It's 
my  own  and  so's  the  Lucas's  Baby  bell." 

"  By  Jove,  she's  got  an  adjustable  spanner." 

"  That's  not  mine  nor  the  repair  outfit ;  Mr.  Leyton  lent 
me  those." 

"  And  vaseline  on  the  bearings." 

"  Of  course." 

"  I  don't  think  much  of  your  gear-case,  my  dear." 

"  Gerald,  do  you  think  it's  all  right  on  the  whole  ?  " 


270  THE    TUNNEL 

"  Well,  it's  sound  enough  as  far  as  I  can  see ;  bit  squiffy 
and  wobbly.  I  don't  advise  you  to  ride  it  in  traffic  or  with 
this  bundle." 

"  I  must  have  the  bundle.  I  came  down  through  Totten- 
ham Court  Road  and  Oxford  Street  and  Bond  Street  and 
Piccadilly  all  right." 

"  Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.     Got  any  oil  ?  " 

"  There's  a  little  oil  can  in  the  wallet  wrapped  up  in  the 
rag.     It's  lovely;  perfectly  new." 


CHAPTER   XXVI 


THERE  was  a  strong  soft  grey  light  standing  at  the 
side  of  the  blind  .  .  .  smiling  and  touching  her  as 
it  had  promised.  She  leaped  to  the  floor  and  stood  looking 
at  it  swaying  with  sleep.  Ships  sailing  along  with  masts 
growing  on  them,  poplars  streaming  up  from  the  ships,  all 
in  a  stream  of  gold.  .  .  .  Last  night's  soapy  water  poured 
away  and  the  fresh  poured  out  ready  standing  there  all 
night,  everything  ready.  ...  I  must  not  forget  the  extra 
piece  of  string.  .  .  .  Je-ru-sa-tetn  the  Gol-den,  with-milk- 
and-hun-ney  —  blest.  .  .  .  Sh,  not  so  much  noise  .  .  .  be- 
neath thy  con,  tern,  pla,  tion,  sink,  heart,  and,  voice,  o, 
pressed. 

I  know  not,  oh,  I,  know,  not. 

Sh  —  Sh  .  .  .  hark  hark  my  soul  angelic  songs  arc  swelling 
O'er  earth's  green  fields,  and  ocean's  wave-beat  shore  .  .  . 
damn  —  blast  where  are  my  bally  knickers  ?  sing  us  sweet 
fragments  of  the  songs  above. 

The  green  world  everywhere,  inside  and  out  ...  all  along 
the  dim  staircase,  waiting  in  the  dim  cold  kitchen. 

No  blind,  brighter.  Cool  grey  light,  a  misty  windless  morn- 
ing.    Shut  the  door. 

They  stand  those  halls  of  zi-on 
All  jubilant  with  song. 
271 


272  THE    TUNNEL 


As  she  neared  Colnbrook  the  road  grew  heavier  and  a 
closer  mist  lay  over  the  fields.  It  was  too  soon  for  fatigue 
but  her  knees  already  seemed  heavy  with  effort.  Getting 
off  at  the  level  crossing  she  found  that  her  skirt  was  sodden 
and  her  zouave  spangled  all  over  with  beads  of  moisture. 
She  walked  shivering  across  the  rails  and  remounted  rapidly, 
hoisting  into  the  saddle  a  draggled  person  that  was  not  her 
own  and  riding  doggedly  on  beating  back  all  thoughts  but 
the  thought  of  sunrise. 

3 

"Is  this  Reading?" 

The  cyclist  smiled  as  he  shouted  back.  He  knew  she 
knew.  But  he  liked  shouting  too.  If  she  had  yelled  Have 
you  got  a  soul,  it  would  have  been  just  the  same.  If  every- 
one were  on  bicycles  all  the  time  you  could  talk  to  every- 
body, all  the  time,  about  anything  .  .  .  sailing  so  steadily 
along  with  two  free  legs  .  .  .  how  much  easier  it  must 
be  with  your  knees  going  so  slowly  up  and  down  .  .  .  how 
funny  I  must  look  with  my  knees  racing  up  and  down  in 
lumps  of  skirt.  But  I'm  here,  at  the  midday  rest.  It  must 
be  nearly  twelve. 

Drawing  into  the  curb  near  a  confectioner's  she  thought 
of  buying  two  bars  of  plain  chocolate.  There  was  some  sort 
of  truth  in  the  Swiss  Family  Robinson.  If  you  went  on, 
it  was  all  right.  There  was  only  death.  People  frightened 
you  about  things  that  were  not  there.  I  will  never  listen 
to  anybody  again ;  or  be  frightened.  That  cyclist  knew, 
as  long  as  he  was  on  his  bicycle.  Perhaps  he  has  people 
who  make  him  not  himself.  He  can  always  get  away  again. 
Men  can  always  get  away.  I  am  going  to  lead  a  man's  life 
always  getting  away.  .  .  . 


THE   TUNNEL  273 

Wheeling  her  machine  back  to  the  open  road  she  sat  down 
on  a  bank  and  ate  the  cold  sausage  and  bread  and  half  of  the 
chocolate  and  lay  down  to  rest  on  a  level  stretch  of  grass 
in  front  of  a  gate.  Light  throbbed  round  the  edges  of  the 
little  high  white  fleecy  clouds.  She  swung  triumphantly 
up.  The  earth  throbbed  beneath  her  with  the  throbbing 
of  her  heart  ...  the  sky  steadied  and  stood  further  off, 
clear  peaceful  blue  with  light  near  soft  bunches  of  cloud 
drifting  slowly  across  it.  She  closed  her  eyes  upon  the 
dazzling  growing  distances  of  blue  and  white  and  felt  the 
horizon  folding  down  in  a  firm  clear  sweep  round  her  green 
cradle.  Within  her  eyelids  fields  swung  past  green,  corn- 
fields gold  and  black,  fields  with  coned  clumps  of  harvested 
corn,  dusty  gold,  and  black,  on  either  side  of  the  bone- 
white  grass  trimmed  road.  The  road  ran  on  and  on  lined 
by  low  hedges  and  the  strange  everlasting  back-flowing 
fields.  Thrilling  hedges  and  outstretched  fields  of  distant 
light,  coming  on  mile  after  mile,  winding  off,  left  behind 
..."  it's  the  Bath  Road  I  shall  be  riding  on ;  I'm  going 
down  to  Chiswick  to  see  which  way  the  wind  is  on  the 
Bath  Road.  .  .  ."  Trees  appeared  golden  and  green  and 
shadowy  with  warm  cool  strong  shaded  trunks  coming 
nearer  and  larger.  They  swept  by,  their  shadowy  heads 
sweeping  the  lower  sky.  Poplars  shot  up  drawing  her  eyes 
to  run  up  their  feathered  slimness  and  sweep  to  the  top  of 
the  pointed  plumes  piercing  the  sky.  Trees  clumped  in 
masses  round  houses  leading  to  villages  that  shut  her  into 
little  corridors  of  hard  hot  light  .  .  .  the  little  bright 
sienna  form  of  the  hen  she  had  nearly  run  over;  the  land 
stretching  serenely  out  again,  rolling  along,  rolling  along 
in  the  hot  sunshine  with  the  morning  and  evening  fresh- 
ness at  either  end  .  .  .  sweeping  it  slowly  in  and  out  of  the 
deeps  of  the  country  night  .  .  .  eyelids  were  transparent. 
It  was  light  coming  through  one's  eyelids  that  made  that 


274  THE   TUNNEL 

clear  soft  buff;  soft  buff  light  filtering  through  one's  body 
.  .  .  little  sounds,  insects  creeping  and  humming  in  the 
hedge,  sounds  from  the  grass.  Sudden  single  quiet  sounds 
going  up  from  distant  fields  and  farms,  lost  in  the  sky. 

4 

I've  got  my  sea-legs  .  .  .  this  is  riding  —  not  just  strain- 
ing along  trying  to  forget  the  wobbly  bicycle,  but  feeling 
it  wobble  and  being  able  to  control  it  .  .  .  being  able  to 
look  about  easily  .  .  .  there  will  be  a  harvest  moon  this 
month,  rolling  up  huge  and  hot,  suddenly  over  the  edge 
of  a  field;  the  last  moon.  I  shall  see  that  anyhow  what- 
ever the  holiday  is  like.  It  will  be  cold  again  in  the  winter. 
Perhaps  I  shan't  feel  so  cold  this  winter. 

5 

She  recognised  the  figure  the  instant  she  saw  it.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  been  riding  the  whole  day  to  meet  it.  Com- 
pletely forgotten  it  had  been  all  the  time  at  the  edge  of 
the  zest  of  her  ride.  It  had  been  everywhere  all  the  time 
and  there  it  was  at  last  dim  and  distant  and  unmistakable 
.  .  .  coming  horribly  along,  a  murk  in  the  long  empty 
road.  She  slowed  up  looking  furtively  about.  The  road 
had  been  empty  for  so  long.  It  stretched  invisibly  away 
behind,  empty.  There  was  no  sound  of  anything  coming 
along;  nothing  but  the  squeak  squeak  of  her  gear-case; 
bitter  empty  fields  on  either  side,  greying  away  to  the  twi- 
light, the  hedges  sharp  and  dark,  enemies ;  nothing  ahead 
but  the  bare  road,  carrying  the  murky  figure ;  there  all 
the  time ;  and  bound  to  come.  She  rode  on  at  her  usual 
pace  struggling  for  an  absorption  so  complete  as  to  make 
her  invisible,  but  was  held  back  by  her  hatred  of  herself 
for  having  wondered  whether  he  had  seen  her.  The  figure 
was  growing  more  distinct.     Murky.     Murk  from  head  to 


THE   TUNNEL  275 

foot.  Wearing  openly  like  a  coat  the  expression  that  could 
be  seen  hidden  inside  everybody.  She  had  made  an  enemy 
of  him.  It  was  too  late.  The  voice  in  her  declaring  sym- 
pathy, claiming  kinship  faded  faint  and  far  away  within 
her  .  .  .  hullo  old  boy,  isn't  it  a  bloody  world  ...  he  would 
know  it  had  come  too  late.  He  came  walking  along,  slowly 
walking  like  someone  in  a  procession  or  a  quickly  moving 
funeral ;  like  someone  in  a  procession,  who  must  go  on.  He 
was  surrounded  by  people,  pressed  in  and  down  by  them, 
wanting  to  kill  everyone  with  a  look  and  run,  madly,  to 
root  up  trees  and  tear  down  the  landscape  and  get  outside 
...  he  is  myself.  .  .  .  He  stood  still.  Her  staring  eyes 
made  him  so  clear  that  she  saw  his  arrested  face  just  be- 
fore he  threw  out  an  arm  and  came  on,  stumbling.  Meas- 
uring the  width  of  the  roadway  she  rode  on  slowly  along 
the  middle  of  it,  pressing  steadily  and  thoughtlessly  forward, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  far-off"  spaces  of  the  world  she  used  to 
know,  towards  a  barrier  of  swirling  twilight.  He  was  quite 
near,  slouching  and  thinking  and  silently  talking,  on  and 
on.  He  was  all  right  poor  thing.  She  put  forth  all  her 
strength  and  shot  past  him  in  a  sharp  curve,  her  eye  just 
seeing  that  he  turned  and  stood,  swaying. 

What  a  blessing  he  was  drunk  what  a  blessing  he  was 
drunk  she  chattered  busily,  trying  to  ignore  her  trembling 
limbs.  Again  and  again  as  she  steadied  and  rode  sturdily 
and  blissfully  on  came  the  picture  of  herself  saying  with 
confidential  eagerness  as  she  dismounted  "  I  say  —  make 
haste  —  there's  a  madman  coming  down  the  road  —  get  be- 
hind the  hedge  till  he's  gone  —  I'm  going  for  the  police." 
A  man  would  not  have  been  afraid.  Then  men  arc  more 
independent  than  women.  Women  can  never  go  very  far 
from  the  protection  of  men  —  because  they  are  physically 
inferior.  But  men  are  afraid  of  mad  bulls.  .  .  .  They  have 
to  resort  to  tricks.     What  was  that  I  was  just  thinking? 


276  T  H  E   T  U  N  N  E  L 

Something  I  ought  to  remember.  Women  have  to  be  pro- 
tected. But  men  explain  it  the  wrong  way.  It  was  the 
same  thing.  .  .  .  The  polite  protective  man  was  the  same ; 
if  he  relied  on  his  strength.  The  world  is  the  most  sickening 
hash.  .  .  .  I'm  so  sorry  for  you.  /  hate  humanity  too. 
Isn't  it  a  lovely  day?     Isn't  it?    Just  look. 


The  dim  road  led  on  into  the  darkness  of  what  appeared 
to  be  a  private  estate.  The  light  from  the  lamp  fell  upon 
wide  gates  fastened  back.  The  road  glimmered  on  ahead 
with  dense  darkness  on  either  side.  There  had  been  no 
turning.  The  road  evidently  passed  through  the  estate. 
She  rode  on  and  on  between  the  two  darknesses,  her  light 
casting  a  wobbling  radiance  along  her  path.  Rustling 
sounded  close  at  hand,  and  quick  thuddings  startled  her 
making  her  heart  leap.  The  hooting  of  an  owl  echoed 
through  the  hollows  amongst  the  trees.  Stronger  than  fear 
was  the  comfort  of  the  dense  darkness.  Her  own  dark- 
ness by  right  of  riding  through  the  day.  Leaning  upon 
the  velvety  blackness  she  pushed  on,  her  eyes  upon  the  little 
circle  of  light,  steady  on  the  centre  of  the  pathway,  wobbling 
upon  the  feet  of  the  trees  emerging  in  slow  procession  on 
either  side  of  the  way. 

7 

The  road  began  to  slope  gently  downwards.  Wearily 
back-pedalling  she  crept  down  the  incline  her  hand  on  the 
brake,  her  eyes  straining  forward.  Hard  points  of  gold 
light  —  of  course.  She  had  put  them  there  herself.  Marl- 
borough .  .  .  the  prim  polite  lights  of  Marlborough  ;  little 
gliding  lights,  welcoming,  coming  safely  up  as  she  descended. 
They  disappeared.  There  must  have  been  a  gap  in  the  trees. 
Presently  she  would  be  down  among  them. 


THE   TUNNEL  277 

8 

"  Goode  Lord  —  it's  a  woman." 

She  passed  through  the  open  gate  into  the  glimmer  of 
a  descending  road.  Yes.  Why  not?  Why  that  amazed 
stupefaction?  Trying  to  rob  her  of  the  darkness  and  the 
wonderful  coming  out  into  the  light.  The  man's  voice 
went  on  with  her  down  the  dull  safe  road.  A  young  lady, 
taking  a  bicycle  ride  in  a  daylit  suburb.  That  was  what 
she  was.  That  was  all  he  would  allow.  It's  something  in 
men. 

9 

"  You  don't  think  of  riding  up  over  the  downs  at  this 
time  of  night  ?  "  It  was  like  an  At  home.  Everybody  in 
the  shop  was  in  it,  but  she  was  not  in  it.  Marlborough 
thoughts  rattling  in  all  the  heads;  with  Sunday  coming. 
They  had  sick  and  dying  relations.  But  it  was  all  in  Marl- 
borough. Marlborough  was  all  round  them  all  the  time, 
the  daily  look  of  it,  the  morning  coming  each  day  excit- 
ingly, all  the  people  seeing  each  other  again  and  the  day 
going  on.  They  did  not  know  that  that  was  it;  or  what 
it  was  they  liked.  Talking  and  thinking  with  the  secret 
hidden  all  the  time  even  from  themselves.  But  it  was 
that  that  made  them  talk  and  make  such  a  to  do  about 
everything.  They  had  to  hide  it  because  if  they  knew  they 
would  feel  fat  and  complacent  and  wicked.  They  were  fat 
and  complacent  because  they  did  not  know  it. 

"  Oh  yes  I  do,"  said  Miriam  in  feeble  husky  tones. 

She  stood  squarely  in  front  of  the  grating.  The  people 
became  angry  gliding  forms ;  cheated ;  angry  in  an  eternal 
resentful  silence ;  pretending.  The  man  began  thoughtfully 
ticking  off  the  words, 


278  T  H  E    T  U  N  N  E  L 

"  How  far  have  you  come  "  he  said  suddenly  pausing 
and  looking  up  through  the  grating. 

"  From  London." 

"  Then  you've  just  come  down  through  the  Forest." 

"  Is  that  a  forest?  " 

"  You  must  have  come  through  Savernake." 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  a  forest." 

"  Well  I  don't  advise  you  to  go  on  up  over  the  downs 
at  this  time  of  night." 

If  only  she  had  not  come  in  she  could  have  gone  on 
without  knowing  it  was  "  the  downs." 

"  My  front  tyre  is  punctured  "  she  said  conversationally, 
leaning  a  little  against  the  counter. 

The  man's  face  tightened.  "  There's  Mr.  Drake  next 
door  would  mend  that  for  you  in  the  morning." 

"  Next  door.  Oh,  thank  you."  Pushing  her  sixpence 
under  the  rail  she  went  down  the  shop  to  the  door  seeing 
nothing  but  the  brown  dusty  floor  leading  out  to  the  help- 
less night. 

Why  did  he  keep  making  such  impossible  suggestions? 
The  tyre  was  absolutely  flat.  How  much  would  a  hotel 
cost?  How  did  you  stay  in  hotels  .  .  .  hotels  .  .  .  her 
hands  went  busily  to  her  wallet.  She  drew  out  the  repair 
outfit  and  Mr.  Leyton's  voice  sounded,  emphatic  and  argu- 
mentative "  You  know  where  you  are  and  they  don't  rook 
you."  There  was  certain  to  be  one  in  a  big  town  like  this. 
She  swished  back  into  the  shop  and  interrupted  the  man 
with  her  eager  singing  question. 

"  Yes  "  came  the  answer,  "  there's  a  quiet  place  of  that 
sort  up  the  road,  right  up  against  the  Forest." 

"  Has  my  telegram  gone  ?     Can  I  alter  it  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  not  gone,  you're  just  in  time." 

It  was  the  loveliest  thing  that  could  have  happened.  The 
day  was  complete,  from  morning  to  night. 


THE   TUNNEL  279 

10 

Someone  brought  in  the  meal  and   clattered   it  quietly 
down,  going  away  and  shutting  the  door  without  a  word. 
A  door  opened  and  the  sound  of  departing  footsteps  ceased. 
She  was  shut  in  with  the  meal  and  the  lamp  in  the  little 
crowded  world.     The  musty  silence  was  so  complete  that 
the  window  hidden  behind  the  buff  and  white  blinds  and 
curtains  must  be  shut.     The  silence  throbbed.     The  throb- 
bing of  her  heart  shook  the  room.     Something  was  telling 
the  room  that  she  was  the  happiest  thing  in  existence.     She 
stood  up,  the  beloved  little  room  moving  as   she  moved, 
and  gathered  her  hands  gently  against  her  breast,  to  .  .  . 
get  through,  through  into  the  soul  of  the  musty  little  room. 
..."  Oh.  .  .  ."     She   felt  herself  beating   from  head  to 
foot  with  a  radiance,  but  her  body  within  it  was   weak 
and  heavy  with  fever.     The  little  scene  rocked,  crowding 
furniture,     antimacassars,     ornaments,     wool     mats.     She 
looked  from  thing  to  thing  with  a  beaming,  feverish,  frozen 
smile.     Her  eyes  blinked  wearily  at  the  hot  crimson  flush 
of  the  mat  under  the  lamp.     She  sank  back  again  her  heavy 
light  limbs  glowing  with  fever.     "  By  Jove,  I'm  tired.  .  .  . 
I've  had  nothing  since  breakfast  m  —  but  a  m-bath   bun 
and  an  acidulatudd  drop."  .  .  .  She  laughed  and  sat  whis- 
tling softly  .  .  .  Jehosophat  —  Manchester  —  Mesopotamia 
—  beloved  —  you  sweet  sweet  thing  —  Veilchen,  unter  Gras 
versteckt  —  out  of  it  all  —  here  I  am.     I  shall  always  stay  in 
hotels.  .  .  .  Glancing  towards  the   food  spread  out  on   a 
white  cloth  near  the  globed  lamp  she  saw  beyond  the  table 
a  little  stack  of  books.     Ham  and  tea  and  bread  and  butter. 
.  .  .  Leaning  unsteadily  across  the  table  .  .  .  battered  and 
ribbed  green  binding  and  then  a  short  moral  story  or  nat- 
ural history  —  blue,  large  and  fat,  a  '  story-book  '  of  some 
kind  .  .  .  she  drew  out  one  of  the  undermost  volumes.  .  .  . 


28o  THE   TUNNEL 

"  Robert  Elsmere  " !  Here,  after  all  these  years  in  this  little 
outlandish  place.  She  poured  out  some  tea  and  hurriedly 
slid  a  slice  of  ham  between  two  pieces  of  bread  and  butter 
and  sat  back  with  the  food  drawn  near,  the  lamplight  glar- 
ing into  her  eyes,  the  printed  page  in  exciting  shadow.  Ev- 
erything in  the  room  was  distinct  and  sharp, —  morning 
strength  descended  upon  her. 

ii 

How  he  must  have  liked  and  admired.  It  must  have 
amazed  him ;  a  woman  setting  forth  and  putting  straight 
the  muddles  of  his  own  mind.  "  Powerful  "  he  probably 
said.  It  was  a  half  jealous  keeping  to  himself  of  a  fine, 
good  thing.  If  he  could  have  known  that  it  would  have 
been,  just  at  that  very  moment,  the  answer  to  my  worry 
about  Christ  he  would  have  been  jealous  and  angry  quite 
as  much  as  surprised  and  pleased  and  sympathetic  .  .  . 
he  was  afraid  himself  of  the  idea  that  anyone  can  give 
up  the  idea  of  the  divinity  of  Christ  and  still  remain  re- 
ligious and  good.  He  ought  to  have  let  me  read  it.  .  .  . 
If  he  could  have  stated  it  himself  as  well,  that  day  by  the 
gate  he  would  have  done  so  ..."  a  very  reasonable  di- 
lemma my  dear."  He  knew  I  was  thinking  about  things. 
But  he  had  not  read  Robert  Elsmere  then.  He  was  jealous 
of  a  thunderbolt  flung  by  a  woman.  .  .  . 

12 

And  now  I've  got  beyond  Robert  Elsmere.  .  .  .  That's 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  and  Robert  Elsmere ;  that's  gone. 
There's  no  answering  science.  One  must  choose.  Either 
science  or  religion.  They  can't  both  be  true.  This  is  the 
same  as  Literature  and  Dogma.  .  .  .  Only  in  Literature 
and  Dogma  there  is  that  thing  that  is  perfectly  true  —  that 


THE   TUNNEL  281 

thing  —  what  is  it  ?    What  was  that  idea  in  Literature  and 
Dogma  ? 

13 
I  wonder  if  I've  strained  my  heart.  This  funny  feeling 
of  sinking  through  the  bed.  Never  mind.  I've  done  the 
ride.  I'm  alive  and  alone  in  a  strange  place.  Everything's 
alive  all  round  me  in  a  new  way.  Nearer.  As  the  flame  of 
the  candle  had  swelled  and  gone  out  under  her  blowing 
she  had  noticed  the  bareness  of  everything  in  the  room  — 
a  room  for  chance  travellers,  nothing  that  anyone  could 
carry  away.  She  could  still  see  it  as  it  was  when  she  moved 
and  blew  out  the  candle,  a  whole  room  swaying  sideways 
into  darkness.  The  more  she  relinquished  the  idea  of  harm 
and  danger,  the  nearer  and  more  intimate  the  room  became. 
.  .  .  No  one  can  prevent  my  being  alone  in  a  strange  place, 
near  to  things  and  loving  them.  It's  more  than  worth  half 
killing  yourself.  It  makes  you  ready  to  die.  I'm  not  going 
to  die,  even  if  I  have  strained  my  heart.  '  Damaged  myself 
for  life.'  I  am  going  to  sleep.  The  dawn  will  come,  no 
one  knowing  where  I  am.  Because  I  have  no  money  I  must 
go  on  and  stay  with  these  people.  But  I  have  been  alive 
here.     There's  hardly  any  time.     I  must  go  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 


BEING  really  happy  or  really  miserable  makes  people 
like  you  and  like  being  with  you.  They  need  not 
know  the  cause.  Someone  will  speak  now,  in  a  moment. 
.  .  .  Miriam  tried  to  return  to  the  falling  rain,  the  soft 
light  in  it,  the  soft  light  on  the  greenery,  the  intense  green 
glow  everywhere  .  .  .  misty  green  glow.  But  her  eyes  fell 
and  her  thoughts  went  on.  They  would  have  seen.  Her 
face  must  be  speaking  of  their  niceness  in  coming  out  on 
the  dull  day  so  that  she  might  drive  about  once  more  in 
Lord  Lansdowne's  estate.  Someone  will  speak.  Perhaps 
they  had  not  found  forgetfulness  in  the  green  through  the 
rain  under  the  grey.  Moments  came  suddenly  in  the  lanes 
between  the  hedges,  like  that  moment  that  always  came 
where  the  lane  ran  up  and  turned  and  the  fields  spread  out 
in  the  distance.  But  usually  you  could  not  forget  the  chaise 
and  the  donkey  and  the  people.  In  here  amongst  the  green 
something  always  came  at  once  and  stayed.  Perhaps  they 
did  not  find  it  so,  or  did  not  know  they  found  it,  because  of 
their  thoughts  about  the  "  fine  estate."  They  seemed  quite 
easy  driving  in  the  lanes,  as  easy  as  they  ever  seemed  when 
one  could  not  forget  them.  What  were  they  doing  when 
one  forgot  them  ?  They  knew  one  liked  some  things  better 
than  others ;  or  suddenly  liked  everything  very  much  indeed 
.  .  .  she  said  you  were  apathetic  .  .  .  what  does  that  mean 
.  .  .  what  did  she  mean  .  .  .  with  her  one  could  see  noth- 

28a 


THE   TUNNEL  283 

ing  and  sat  waiting  ...  I  said  I  don't  think  so,  I  don't 
think  she  is  apathetic  at  all.  Then  they  understood  when 
one  sat  in  a  heap.  .  .  .  They  had  been  pleased  this  morn- 
ing because  of  one's  misery  at  going  away.  They  did  not 
know  of  the  wild  happiness  in  the  garden  before  breakfast 
nor  that  the  garden  had  been  so  lovely  because  the  strain  of 
the  visit  was  over,  and  London  was  coming.  They  did  not 
know  that  the  happiness  of  being  in  amongst  the  greenery 
to-day,  pouring  out  one's  heart  in  farewell  to  the  great  trees 
had  grown  so  intense  because  the  feeling  of  London  and 
freedom  was  there.  They  could  not  see  the  long  rich  win- 
ter, the  lectures  and  books,  out  of  which  something  was 
coming.  .  .  . 

"  It's  a  pity  the  rain  came." 

Ah  no,  that  is  not  rain.  It  is  not  raining.  What  is  '  rain- 
ing '  ?     What  do  people  think  when  they  say  these  things  ? 

"  We  are  like  daisies,  drenched  in  dew."  She  pursed  up 
her  face  towards  the  sky. 

They  laughed  and  silence  came  again.     Heavy  and  happy. 


"  I'm  glad  you  came  up.  I  want  to  ask  you  what  is  to 
be  done  about  Hendie." 

Miriam  looked  about  the  boudoir.  Mrs.  Green  had 
hardly  looked  at  her.  She  was  smiling  at  her  fancy  work. 
But  if  one  did  not  say  something  soon  she  would  speak 
again,  going  on  into  things  from  her  point  of  view.  Doctor 
and  medicine.  Eve  liked  it  all.  She  liked  Mrs.  Green's 
clever  difficult  fancy  work  and  the  boudoir  smell  of  Turkish 
beans  and  the  house  and  garden  and  the  bazaars  and  village 
entertainments  and  the  children's  endless  expensive  clothes 
and  the  excitements  and  troubles  about  that  fat  man.  Down 
here  she  was  in  a  curious  flush  of  excitement  all  the  time 
herself.  .  .  . 


284  THE    TUNNEL 

"  I  think  she  wants  a  rest." 

"  I  told  her  so.  But  resting  seems  to  make  her  worse. 
We  all  thought  she  was  worse  after  the  holidays." 

Miriam's  eyes  fell  before  the  sudden  glance  of  Mrs. 
Green's  blue  green  eye.  She  must  have  seen  her  private 
vision  of  life  in  the  great  rich  house  .  .  .  misery,  death  with 
no  escape.  But  they  had  Eve.  Eve  did  not  know  what 
was  killing  her.     She  liked  being  tied  to  people. 

"  She  is  very  nervous." 

"  Yes.     I  know  it's  only  nerves.     I've  told  her  that." 

"  But  you  don't  know  what  nerves  are.  They're  not  just 
nothing.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  not  nervous." 

"  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Not  in  the  way  Hendie  is.     You're  a  solid  little  person." 

Miriam  laughed  and  thought  of  Germany  and  Newlands 
and  Banbury  Park.  But  this  house  would  be  a  thousand 
times  worse.  There  was  no  one  in  it  who  knew  anything 
about  anything.  That  was  why  when  she  was  not  too  bad 
Eve  thought  it  was  good  for  her  to  be  there. 

"  I  think  she's  very  happy  here." 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  that.  But  something  must  be  done. 
She  can't  go  on  with  these  perpetual  headaches  and  sleep- 
lessness and  attacks  of  weepiness." 

"  I  think  she  wants  a  long  rest." 

"  What  does  she  do  with  her  holidays?  Doesn't  she  rest 
then?" 

"  Yes,  but  there  are  always  worries "  said  Miriam  des- 
perately. 

"  You  have  had  a  good  deal  to  worry  —  how  is  your 
father?" 

How  much  do  you  know  about  that.  .  .  .  How  does  it 
strike  you.  .  .  . 

"  He  is  all  right,  I  think." 


THE   TUNNEL  285 

"  He  lives  with  your  eldest  sister." 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  very  nice  for  him.  I  expect  the  little  grandson 
will  be  a  great  interest." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  your  youngest  sister  has  a  little  girl  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  like  children  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  expect  you  spend  a  good  deal  of  your  time  with  your 
sisters." 

"  Well  —  it's  a  fearful  distance."  Why  didn't  you  ask 
me  all  these  things  when  I  was  staying  with  you.  There's 
no  time  now.  .  .  . 

"  Do  you  like  living  alone  in  London  ?  " 

"  Well  —  I'm  fearfully  busy." 

"  I  expect  you  are.  I  think  it's  wonderful.  But  you 
must  be  awfully  lonely  sometimes." 

Miriam  fidgeted  and  wondered  how  to  go. 

"  Well  —  come  down  and  see  us  again.  I'm  glad  I  had 
this  chance  of  talking  to  you  about  Hendie." 

"  Perhaps  she'll  be  better  in  the  winter.  I  think  she's 
really  better  in  the  cold  weather." 

"  Well  —  we'll  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Green  getting  up. 
"  I  can't  think  what's  the  matter  with  her.  There's  nothing 
to  worry  her  down  here." 

"  No "  said  Miriam  emphatically  in  a  worldly  tone  of 
departure.  "  Thank  you  so  much  for  having  me "  she 
said  feebly  as  they  passed  through  the  flower-scented  hall 
the  scent  of  the  flowers  hanging  delicately  within  the 
stronger  odour  of  the  large  wood-fire. 

"  I'm  glad  you  came.  We  thought  it  would  be  nice  for 
both  of  you." 

"  Yes  it  was  very  kind  of  you.     I'm  sure  she  wants  a 


286  THE   TUNNEL 

complete  rest."     Away   from  us  away  from  you  in  some 
new  place.  .  .  . 

In  the  open  light  of  the  garden  Mrs.  Green's  eyes  were 
almost  invisible  points.  She  ought  to  do  her  hair  smaller. 
The  fashionable  bundle  of  little  sausages  did  not  suit  a 
large  head.  The  eyes  looked  more  sunken  and  dead  than 
Eve's  with  her  many  headaches.  But  she  was  strong  —  a 
strong  hard  thunder-cloud  at  breakfast.  Perhaps  very  un- 
happy. But  wealthy.  Strong,  cruel  wealth,  eating  up  lives 
it  did  not  understand.  How  did  Eve  manage  to  read  Music 
and  Morals  and  Olive  Schreiner  here? 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 


""\>TISS  DEAR  to  see  y°u  Miss-" 

J[ \ J_       "  Is  there  anyone  else  in  the  waiting  room  ?  " 

"  No  miss  —  nobody." 

Miriam  went  in  briskly.  ..."  Well  ?  How  is  the  de- 
cayed gentlewoman?"  she  said  briskly  from  the  doorway. 
She  hardly  looked.  She  had  taken  in  the  close-fitting  bonnet 
and  chin  bow  and  the  height-giving  look  of  the  long  blue 
uniform  cloak  together  with  the  general  aspect  of  the  heavily 
shaded  afternoon  room.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  she's  very  well." 

Miss  Dear  had  stood  quite  still  in  her  place  half  way 
down  the  room  between  the  sofa  and  the  littered  waiting 
room  table.  She  made  a  small  controlled  movement  with 
her  right  hand  as  Miriam  approached.  Miriam  paused  with 
her  hand  on  a  "  Navy  League,"  absorbed  in  the  low  sweet 
even  tone.  She  found  herself  standing  reverently,  pulled 
up  a  few  inches  from  the  dark  figure.  Suddenly  she  was 
alight  with  the  radiance  of  an  uncontrollable  smile.  Her 
downcast  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  tall  slender  figure  in  a 
skimpy  black  dress,  tendrils  of  fine  gold  hair  dancing  in  the 
rough  wind  under  a  cornflower  blue  toque,  a  clear  living 
rose-flush.  .  .  .  Something  making  one  delicate  figure  more 
than  the  open  width  of  the  afternoon,  the  blue  afternoon 
sea  and  sky.  She  looked  up.  The  shy  sweet  flower  pink 
face  glowed  more  intensely  under  the  cap  of  gold  hair 
clasped  flatly  down  by  the  blue  velvet  rim  of  the  bonnet. 

287 


288  THETUNNEL 

The  eyes,  now  like  Weymouth  Bay,  now  like  Julia  Doyle's, 
now  a  clear  expressionless  blue,  were  fixed  on  hers ;  the 
hesitating  face  was  breaking  again  into  watchful  speech. 
But  there  was  no  speech  in  the  well-remembered  outlines 
moulding  the  ominous  cloak.  Miriam  flung  out  to  stem 
the  voice,  rushing  into  phrases  to  open  the  way  to  the  hall 
and  the  front  door.  Miss  Dear  stood  smiling  and  laughing 
her  little  smothered  obsequious  laugh,  just  as  she  had  done 
at  Bognor,  making  one  feel  like  a  man. 

"Well  —  I'm  most  frightfully  busy,"  wound  up  Miriam 
cheerfully  turning  to  the  door.  "  That's  London  —  isn't 
it?     One  never  has  a  minute." 

Miss  Dear  did  not  move.  "  I  came  to  thank  you  for  the 
concert  tickets,"  she  said  in  the  even  thoughtful  voice 
that  dispersed  one's  thoughts. 

"  Oh  yes.     Was  it  any  good?  " 

"  I  enjoyed  it  immensely,"  said  Miss  Dear  gravely.  "  So 
did  Sister  North,"  she  added,  shaking  out  the  words  in 
delicate  laughter. 

.  .  .  /  don't  know  '  Sister  North.'  ..."  Oh,  good  "  said 
Miriam  opening  the  door. 

"  It  was  most  kind  of  you  to  send  them.  I'm  going  to 
a  case  to-morrow,  but  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  when  I  come 
back." 

"  Sister  North  sported  a  swell  new  blouse  "  said  Miss 
Dear  in  clear  intimate  tones  as  she  paused  in  the  hall  to 
take  up  her  umbrella. 

"  I  hope  it  won't  rain,"  said  Miriam  formally,  opening 
the  front  door. 

"  She  was  no  end  of  a  swell  "  pursued  Miss  Dear,  hitch- 
ing her  cloak  and  skirt  from  her  heels  with  a  neat  cuffed 
gloved  hand,  quirked  compactly  against  her  person  just  un- 
der her  waist  and  turned  so  that  her  elbow  and  forearm 
made  a  small  compact  angle  against  her  person.     She  spoke 


THE   TUNNEL  289 

over  her  shoulder,  her  form  slenderly  poised  forward  to  de- 
scend the  steps;  "  I  told  her  she  would  knock  them."  She 
was  aglow  with  the  afternoon  sunlight  streaming  down  the 
street. 

Miriam  spoke  as  she  stepped  down  with  delicate  plunges. 
She  did  not  hear  and  paused  turning  on  the  last  step. 

"  It  was  too  bad  of  you  "  shouted  Miriam  smiling  "  to 
leave  my  sister  alone  at  the  Decayed  Gentlewomen's." 

"  I  couldn't  help  myself,"  gleamed  Miss  Dear.  "  My 
time  was  up." 

"  Did  you  hate  being  there  ?  " 

Miss  Dear  hung,  poised  and  swaying  to  some  inner  breeze. 
Miriam  gazed,  waiting  for  her  words,  watching  the  in- 
turned  eyes  control  the  sweet  lips  flowering  for  speech. 

"  It  was  rather  comical  " —  the  eyes  came  round,  clear 
pure  blue ;  — "  until  your  sister  came."  The  tall  slender 
figure  faced  the  length  of  the  street;  the  long  thin  blue 
cloak  flickering  all  over  gave  Miriam  a  foresight  of  the 
coming  swift  hesitating  conversational  progress  of  the  figure 
along  the  pavement,  the  poise  of  the  delicate  surmounting 
head,  slightly  bent,  the  pure  brow  foremost,  shading  the 
lowered  thoughtful  eyes,  the  clear  little  rounded  dip  of 
the  chin  indrawn. 

"  I'm  glad  she  gave  me  your  address,"  finished  Miss 
Dear  a  little  furrow  running  along  her  brow  in  control  of 
the  dimpling  flushed  oval  below  it.  "  I'll  say  au  revoir 
and  not  good  bye  for  the  present." 

"Good  bye,"  flung  Miriam  stiffly  at  the  departing  face. 
Shutting  the  neglected  door  she  hurried  back  through  the 
hall  and  resumed  her  consciousness  of  Wimpole  Street  with 
angry  eager  swiftness.  .  .  .  Eve,  getting  mixed  up  with 
people  ...  it  is  right  .  .  .  she  would  not  have  been  angry 
if  I  had  asked  her  to  be  nice  to  somebody.  ...  I  did  not 
mean   to    do   anything  ...  I    was   proud    of    having    the 


2QO  THE   TUNNEL 

tickets  to  send  ...  if  I  had  not  sent  them  I  should  have 
had  the  thought  of  all  those  nurses,  longing  for  something 
to  do  between  cases.  They  are  just  the  people  for  the 
Students  Concerts  ...  if  she  comes  again.  ..."  I  can't 
have  social  life,  unfortunately,"  how  furious  I  shall  feel 
saying  that  "you  see  I'm  so  fearfully  full  up  —  lectures 
every  night  and  I'm  away  every  week-end  .  .  .  and  I'm  not 
supposed  to  see  people  here " 


CHAPTER   XXIX 


MIRIAM  had  no  choice  but  to  settle  herself  on  the 
cane-seated  chair.  When  Miss  Dear  had  drawn 
the  four  drab  coloured  curtains  into  place  the  small  cubicle 
was  in  semi-darkness. 

"  I  hope  the  next  time  you  come  to  tea  with  me  it  will 
be  under  rather  more  comfortable  circumstances." 

"  This  is  all  right,"  said  Miriam  in  abstracted  impatient 
continuation  of  her  abounding  manner.  Miss  Dear  was 
arranging  herself  on  the  bed  as  if  for  a  long  sitting.  The 
small  matter  of  business  would  come  now.  Having  had 
tea  it  would  be  impossible  to  depart  the  moment  the  dis- 
cussion was  over.  How  much  did  the  tea  cost  here  ?  That 
basement  tea-room,  those  excited  young  women  and  middle- 
aged  women  watchful  and  stealthy  and  ugly  with  poverty 
and  shifts,  those  tea-pots  and  shabby  trays  and  thick  bread 
and  butter  were  like  the  Y.W.C.A.  public  restaurant  at  the 
other  end  of  the  street  —  fourpence  at  the  outside;  but 
Miss  Dear  would  have  to  pay  it.  She  felt  trapped  ..."  a 
few  moments  of  your  time  to  advise  me  "  and  now  half 
the  summer  twilight  had  gone  and  she  was  pinned  in  this 
prison  face  to  face  with  anything  Miss  Dear  might  choose 
to  present;  forced  by  the  presences  audible  in  the  other 
cubicles  to  a  continuation  of  her  triumphant  tea-room  man- 
ner. 

"  You  must  excuse  my  dolly."  She  arranged  her  skirt 
neatly  about  the  ankle  of  the  slippered  bandaged  foot. 

291 


292  THE   TUNNEL 

Anyone  else  would  say  what  is  the  matter  with  your  foot. 
...  It  stuck  out,  a  dreadfully  paddled  mass,  dark  in  the 
darkness  of  the  dreadful  little  enclosure  in  the  dreadful 
dark  hive  of  women,  collected  together  only  by  poverty. 

"  Have  you  left  your  association?  " 

"Oh  no,  de-er!  not  permanently  of  course,"  said  Miss 
Dear  pausing  in  her  tweaklings  and  adjustments  of  draperies 
to  glance  watchfully  through  the  gloom. 

"  I'm  still  a  member  there." 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  But  I've  got  to  look  after  myself.  They  don't  give  you 
a  chance." 

"No " 

"  It's  rush  in  and  rush  out  and  rush  in  and  rush  out." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  .  .  .  what  do  you  want 
with  me.  .  .  ." 

"  What  do  you  mean  de-er." 

"  Well  I  mean,  are  you  going  on  nursing." 

"  Of  course  de-er.     I  was  going  to  tell  you." 

Miriam's  restive  anger  would  not  allow  her  to  attend 
fully  to  the  long  story.  She  wandered  off  with  the  dreadful 
idea  of  nursing  a  "  semi-mental  "  sitting  in  a  deck-chair 
in  a  country  garden,  the  hopeless  patient,  the  nurse  half 
intent  on  a  healthy  life  and  fees  for  herself,  and  recalled 
the  sprinkling  of  uniformed  figures  amongst  the  women 
crowded  at  the  table,  all  in  this  dilemma,  all  eagerly  intent ; 
all  overworked  by  associations  claiming  part  of  their  fees 
or  taking  the  risks  of  private  nursing,  all  getting  older; 
all  anyhow  as  long  as  they  went  on  nursing  bound  to  live 
on  illness;  to  live  with  illness  knowing  that  they  were 
living  on  it.  Yet  Mr.  Leyton  had  said  that  no  hospital 
run  by  a  religious  sisterhood  was  any  good  .  .  .  these 
women  were  run  by  doctors.  .  .  . 

"  You  see  de-er  it's  the  best  thing  any  sensible  nurse  can 


THE   TUNNEL  293 

do  as  soon  as  she  knows  a  sufficient  number  of  influenchoo 
peopoo  —  physicians  and  others." 

"  Yes,  I  see."  .  .  .  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with 
me.  .  .  . 

"  I  shall  keep  in  correspondence  with  my  doctors  and 
friends  and  look  after  myself  a  bit." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Miriam  eagerly.  "  It's  a  splendid  plan. 
What  did  you  want  to  consult  me  about  ?  " 

"  Well  you  see  it's  like  this.  I  must  tell  you  my  little 
difficulty.  The  folks  at  thirty-three  don't  know  I'm  here 
and  I  dont'  want  to  go  back  there  just  at  present.  I  was 
wondering  if  when  I  leave  here  you'd  mind  my  having  my 
box  sent  to  your  lodgings.  I  shan't  want  my  reserve  things 
down  there." 

"  Well  —  there  isn't  much  room  in  my  room." 

"  It's  a  flat  box.  I  got  it  to  go  to  the  Colonies  with  a 
patient." 

"  Oh,  did  you  go?  .  .  ."  Nurses  did  see  life  ;  though  they 
were  never  free  to  see  it  in  their  own  way.  Perhaps  some 
of  them  .  .  .  but  then  they  would  not  be  good  nurses. 

"  Well  I  didn't  go.  It  was  a  chance  of  a  life-time.  Such 
a  de-er  old  gentleman  —  one  of  the  Fitz-Duff  family.  It 
would  have  been  nurse  companion.  He  didn't  want  me 
in  uniform.  My  word.  He  gave  me  a  complete  outfit, 
took  me  round,  coats  and  skirts  at  Peters,  gloves  at  Pen- 
berthy's,  a  lovely  gold-mounted  umbrella,  everything  the 
heart  could  desire.  He  treated  me  just  like  a  daughter." 
During  the  whole  of  this  speech  she  redeemed  her  words 
by  little  delicate  bridling  movements  and  adjustments,  her 
averted  eyes  resting  in  indulgent  approval  on  the  old  gentle- 
man. 

"Why  didn't  you  go?" 

"  He  died  dear." 

"  Oh  I  see." 


294  THE    TUNNEL 

44  It  could  go  under  your  bed,  out  of  the  way." 
44  I've  got  hat-boxes   and   things.     My   room   is    full   of 
things  I'm  afraid." 

44  P'raps  your  landlady  would  let  it  stand  somewhere." 

44  I  might  ask  her  —  won't  they  let  you  leave  things  here?  " 

44  They  would  I   daresay,"   frowned  Miss   Dear  "'  but  I 

have  special  reasons.     I  don't  wish  to  be  beholden  to  the 

people  here."     She  patted  the  tendrils  of  her  hair,  looking 

about  the  cubicle  with  cold  disapproval. 

44  I  daresay  Mrs.  Bailey  wouldn't  mind.  But  I  hardly 
like  to  ask  her  you  know.  There  seems  to  be  luggage  piled 
up  everywhere." 

44  Of  course  I  should  be  prepared  to  pay  a  fee." 
.  .  .  What  a  wonderful  way  of  living  .  .  .  dropping  a 
trunk   full  of   things  and  going  off  with  a   portmanteau; 
starting  life  afresh  in  a  new  strange  place.     Miriam   re- 
garded the  limber  capable  form  outstretched  on  the  narrow 
bed.     This  dark  little  enclosure,  the  forced  companionship 
of   the  crowd  of  competing  adventuresses,  the  sounds  of 
them  in  the  near  cubicles,  the  perpetual  sound  filling  the 
house  like  a  sea  of  their  busy  calculations  ...  all  this  was 
only  a  single  passing  incident  .  .  .  beyond  it  were  the  wide 
well-placed  lives  of  wealthy  patients. 
Miss  Younger  is  a  sweet  woman." 
Miriam's  eyes  awoke  to  affronted  surprise. 
44  You  know  de-er ;  the  wan  yow  was  sitting  by  at  tea- 
time.     I  told  you  just  now." 
"  Oh  "  said  Miriam  guiltily. 

Miss  Dear  dropped  her  voice ;  "  she's  told  me  her  whole 
story.     She's  a  dear  sweet  Christian  woman.     She's  work- 
ing in  a  settlement.     She's  privately  engaged  to  the  Bishop. 
It's  not  to  be  published  yet.     She's  a  sweet  woman." 
Miriam  rose.     "  I've  got  to  get  back,  I'm  afraid." 


THE   TUNNEL  295 

"  Don't  hurry  away,  dear.  I  hoped  you  would  stay  and 
have  some  supper." 

"  I  really  can't "  said  Miriam  wearily. 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  shall  meet  again  before  Thursday. 
You'll  ask  Mrs.  Bailey  about  my  box,"  said  Miss  Dear  get- 
ting to  her  feet. 

"  Fancy  your  remembering  her  name  "  said  Miriam  with 
loud  cheerfulness,  fumbling  with  the  curtains. 

Miss  Dear  stood  beaming  indulgently. 

All  the  way  down  the  unlit  stone  staircase  they  rallied 
each  other  about  the  country  garden  with  the  deck  chairs. 

"  Well "  said  Miriam  from  the  street,  "  I'll  let  you  know 
about  Mrs.  Bailey." 

"  All  right  dear,  I  shall  expect  to  hear  from  you ;  au 
revoir  "  cried  Miss  Dear  from  the  door.  In  the  joy  of  her 
escape  into  the  twilight  Miriam  waved  her  hand  towards 
the  indulgently  smiling  form  and  flung  away,  singing. 


CHAPTER   XXX 


"DEGULAR     field-day'     eh     Miss     Hens'n       Look 

[^  here "     Mr.    Orly    turned    towards    the    light 

coming  in  above  the  front  door  to  exhibit  his  torn  waist- 
coat and  broken  watch-chain.  "  Came  for  me  like  a  fury. 
They've  got  double  strength  y'know  when  they're  under. 
Ever  seen  anything  like  it?" 

Miriam  glanced  incredulously  at  the  portly  frontage. 

"  Fancy  breaking  the  chain  "  she  said,  sickened  by  the 
vision  of  small  white  desperately  fighting  hands.  He  gath- 
ered up  the  hanging  strings  of  bright  links,  his  powerful 
padded  musicianly  hands  finding  the  edges  of  the  broken 
links  and  holding  them  adjusted  with  the  discoloured  rav- 
aged fingers  of  an  artizan.  "  A  good  tug  would  do  it,"  he 
said  kindly.  "  A  chain's  no  stronger  than  the  weakest 
link  "  he  added  with  a  note  of  dreamy  sadness,  drawing  a 
sharp  sigh. 

"  Did  you  get  the  tooth  out "  clutched  Miriam  auto- 
matically making  a  mental  note  of  the  remark  that  flashed 
through  the  world  with  a  sad  light,  a  lamp  brought  into  a 
hopeless  sick-room  .  .  .  keeping  up  her  attitude  of  response 
to  show  that  she  was  accepting  the  apology  for  the  extrem- 
ities of  rage  over  the  getting  of  the  anaesthetist.  Mrs.  Orly 
appearing  in  the  hall  at  the  moment,  still  flushed  from 
the  storm,  joined  the  group  and  outdid  Miriam's  admiring 
amazement,  brilliant  smiles  of  relief  garlanding  her  gentle 

296 


THE   TUNNEL  297 

outcry.  "  Hancock  busy  ?  "  said  Mr.  Orly  in  farewell  as 
he  turned  and  swung  away  to  the  den  followed  by  Mrs. 
Orly,  her  unseen  face  busy  with  an  interrupted  errand. 
He  would  not  hear  that  her  voice  was  divided.  .  .  .  No 
one  seemed  to  be  aware  of  the  divided  voices  ...  no  men. 
Life  went  on  and  on,  a  great  oblivious  awfulness,  sliding 
over  everything.  Every  moment  things  went  that  could 
never  be  recovered  ...  on  and  on,  and  it  was  always  too 
late,  there  was  always  some  new  thing  obliterating  every- 
thing, something  that  looked  new,  but  always  turned  out 
to  be  the  same  as  everything  else,  grinning  with  its  same- 
ness in  an  awful  blank  where  one  tried  to  remember  the 
killed  things  ...  if  only  everyone  would  stop  for  a  moment 
and  let  the  thing  that  was  always  hovering  be  there,  let  it 
settle  and  intensify.  But  the  whole  of  life  was  a  conspiracy 
to  prevent  it.  Was  there  something  wrong  in  it?  It  could 
not  be  a  coincidence  the  way  life  akvays  did  that  .  .  .  she 
had  reached  the  little  conservatory  on  the  half  landing, 
darkened  with  a  small  forest  of  aspidistra.  The  dull  dust- 
laden  leaves  identified  themselves  with  her  life.  What 
had  become  of  her  autumn  of  hard  work  that  was  to  lift 
her  out  of  her  personal  affairs  and  lead  somewhere?  Al- 
ready the  holiday  freshness  and  vigour  had  left  her;  and 
nothing  had  been  done.  Nothing  was  so  strong  as  the  de- 
sire that  everything  would  stop  for  a  moment  and  allow  her 
to  remember  .  .  .  wearily  she  mounted  the  remaining  stairs 
to  Mr.  Hancock's  room.  "  I  think  "  said  a  clear  high  con- 
fident voice  from  the  chair  and  stopped.  Miriam  waited 
with  painful  eagerness  while  the  patient  rinsed  her  mouth ; 
"  that  that  gentleman  thinks  himself  a  good  deal  cleverer 
than  he  is,"  she  resumed  sitting  back  in  the  chair. 

"  I  am  afraid  I'm  not  as  familiar  with  his  work  as  I  ought 
to  be,  but  I  can't  say  I've  been  very  greatly  impressed  as 
far  as  I  have  gone." 


298  THE   TUNNEL 

"  Don't  go  any  further.  There's  nothing  there  to  go 
for." 

Who  are  you  speaking  of?  How  do  you  know?  What 
have  you  got  that  makes  you  think  he  has  nothing? — Mir- 
iam almost  cried  aloud.  Could  she  not  see,  could  not  both 
of  them  see  that  the  quiet  sheen  of  the  green-painted  win- 
dow-frame cast  off  their  complacent  speech?  Did  they  not 
hear  it  tinkle  emptily  back  from  the  twined  leaves  and  ten- 
drils, the  flowers  and  butterflies  painted  on  the  window 
in  front  of  them?  The  patient  had  turned  briskly  to  the 
spittoon  again  after  her  little  speech.  She  would  have  a 
remark  ready  when  the  brisk  rinsing  was  over.  There  could 
be  no  peace  in  her  presence.  Even  when  she  was  gagged 
there  would  be  the  sense  of  her  sending  out  little  teasing 
thoughts  and  comments.  They  could  never  leave  anything 
alone  ...  oh  it  was  that  woman  ...  the  little  gold  knot 
at  the  back  of  the  cheerful  little  gold  head;  hair  that  curled 
tightly  about  her  head  when  she  was  a  baby  and  that  had 
grown  long  and  been  pinned  up,  as  the  clever  daughter  of 
that  man;  getting  to  know  all  he  had  said  about  women. 
If  she  believed  it  she  must  loathe  her  married  state  and  her 
children  .  .  .  how  could  she  let  life  continue  through  her? 
Perhaps  it  was  the  sense  of  her  treachery  that  gave  her  that 
bright  brisk  amused  manner.  It  was  a  way  of  carrying 
things  off,  that  maddening  way  of  speaking  of  everything  as 
if  life  were  a  jest  at  everybody's  expense  ...  all  "  clever  " 
women  seemed  to  have  that,  never  speaking  what  they 
thought  or  felt,  but  always  things  that  sounded  like  quota- 
tions from  men ;  so  that  they  always  seemed  to  flatter  or 
criticise  the  men  they  were  with  according  as  they  were  as 
clever  as  some  man  they  knew,  or  less  clever.  What  was 
she  like  when  she  was  alone  and  dropped  that  bright  manner. 
..."  Have  you  made  any  New  Year  resolutions?     I  don't 


THE   TUNNEL  299 

make  any.  My  friends  think  me  godless,  /  think  them  lack- 
ing in  common  sense  "...  exactly  like  a  man ;  taking  up 
a  fixed  attitude  .  .  .  having  a  sort  of  prepared  way  of  tak- 
ing everything  .  .  .  like  the  Wilsons  .  .  .  anything  else  was 
'  unintelligent '  or  '  absurd  '  .  .  .  their  impatience  meant 
something.  Somehow  all  the  other  people  were  a  reproach. 
If  some  day  everyone  lived  in  the  clear  light  of  science, 
"  waiting  for  the  pronouncements  of  science  in  all  the  affairs 
of  life,"  waiting  for  the  pronouncements  of  those  sensual 
dyspeptic  men  with  families  who  thought  of  women  as  ex- 
isting only  to  produce  more  men  .  .  .  admirably  fitted  by 
Nature's  inexorable  laws  for  her  biological  role  .  .  .  per- 
haps she  agreed  or  pretended  to  think  it  all  a  great  lark  .  .  . 
the  last  vilest  flattery  .  .  .  she  had  only  two  children  .  .  . 
si  la  femme  avait  plus  de  sensibilite  elle  ne  retomberait  pas  si 
facilement  dans  la  grossesse.  ...  La  femme,  c'est  peu  gal- 
ant  de  le  dire,  est  la  femelle  de  l'homme.  The  Frenchman  at 
any  rate  wanted  to  say  something  else.  But  why  want  to 
be  gallant  .  .  .  and  why  not  say  man ;  it  is  not  very  graceful 
to  say  it,  is  the  male  of  woman.  If  women  had  been  the 
recorders  of  things  from  the  beginning  it  would  all  have 
been  the  other  way  round  .  .  .  Mary.  Mary,  the  Jewess, 
write  something  about  Mary  the  Jewess;  the  Frenchman's 
Queen  of  Heaven. 

Englishmen ;  the  English  were  "  the  leading  race." 
"  England  and  America  together  —  the  Anglo-Saxon  peoples 
—  could  govern  the  destines  of  the  world."  What  world? 
.  .  .  millions  and  millions  of  child-births  .  .  .  colonial 
women  would  keep  it  all  going  .  .  .  and  religious  people 
.  .  .  and  if  religion  went  on  there  would  always  be  all  the 
people  who  took  the  Bible  literally  .  .  .  and  if  religion  were 
not  true  then  there  was  only  science.  Either  way  was 
equally  abominable  .  .  .  for  women. 


3oo  THETUNNEL 


The  far  end  of  the  ward  was  bright  sunlight  .  .  .  there 
she  was  enthroned,  commanding  the  whole  length  of  the 
ward,  sitting  upright,  her  head  and  shoulders  already  con- 
versational, her  hands  busy  with  objects  on  the  bed  towards 
which  her  welcoming  head  was  momentarily  bent ;  like  a 
hostess  moving  chairs  in  a  small  drawing  room  .  .  .  chrys- 
anthemums all  down  the  ward  —  massed  on  little  tables  .  .  . 
a  parrot  sidling  and  bobbing  along  its  perch,  great  big  funny 
solemn  French  grey,  fresh  clean  living  French  grey  pure  in 
the  sunlight,  a  pure  canary  coloured  beak  .  .  .  clean  grey 
and  yellow  ...  in  the  sun  ...  a  curious  silent  noise  in  the 
stillness  of  the  ward. 

"  I  couldn't  hear ;  I  wasn't  near  enough." 

"  Better  late  than  never,  I  said." 

"  D'you  know  I  thought  you'd  only  been  here  a  few  days 
and  to-day  when  I  looked  at  your  letter  I  was  simply  as- 
tounded.    You're  sitting  up." 

"  I  should  hope  I  am.  They  kept  me  on  my  back,  half 
starving  for  three  weeks." 

"  You  look  very  pink  and  well  now." 

"  That's  what  Dr.  Ashley  Densley  said.  You  ought  to 
have  seen  me  when  I  came  in.  You  see  I'm  on  chicken 
now." 

"  And  you  feel  better." 

"  Well, —  you  can't  really  tell  how  you  are  till  you're  up." 

"When  are  you  going  to  get  up?" 

"  Tomorrow  I  hope  dear.  So  you  see  you're  just  in 
time." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  are  going  away?  " 

"  They  turn  you  out  as  soon  as  you're  strong  enough  to 
stand." 

"  But  —  how  can  you  get  about?  " 


THE   TUNNEL  301 

"  Dr.  Ashley  Densley  has  arranged  all  that.  I'm  going 
to  a  convalescent  home." 

"  Oh,  that's  very  nice." 

"  Poor  Dr.  Ashley  Densley,  he  was  dreadfully  upset." 

"  You've  had  some  letters  to  cheer  you  up."  Miriam 
spoke  impatiently,  her  eyes  rooted  on  the  pale  leisurely 
hands  mechanically  adjusting  some  neatly  arranged  papers. 

"No  de-er.  My  friends  have  all  left  me  to  look  after 
myself  this  time  but  since  I've  been  sitting  up,  I've  been 
trying  to  get  my  affairs  in  order." 

"  I  thought  of  bringing  you  some  flowers  but  there  was 
not  a  single  shop  between  here  and  Wimpole  Street." 

"  There's  generally  women  selling  them  outside.  But  I'm 
glad  you  didn't;  I've  too  much  sympathy  with  the  poor 
nurses." 

Miriam  glanced  fearfully  about.  There  were  so  many 
beds  with  forms  seated  and  lying  upon  them  .  .  .  but  there 
seemed  no  illness  or  pain.  Quiet  eyes  met  hers ;  everything 
seemed  serene;  there  was  no  sound  but  the  strange  silent 
noise  of  the  sunlight  and  the  flowers.  Half  way  down  the 
ward  stood  a  large  three-fold  screen  covered  with  dark 
American  cloth. 

"  She's  unconscious  today,"  said  Miss  Dear;  "she  won't 
last  through  the  night." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  there  is  someone  dying  there?" 

"  Yes  de-er." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  they  don't  put  them  into  a  separate 
room  to  die?" 

"  They  can't  dear.  They  haven't  got  the  space  "  flashed 
Miss  Dear. 

Death  shut  in  with  one  lonely  person.  Brisk  nurses 
putting  up  the  screen.  Dying  eyes  cut  off  from  all  but 
those  three   dark  surrounding   walls,   with   death   waiting 


3oa  THE    TUNNEL 

inside  them.  Miriam's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  There,  just 
across  the  room,  was  the  end.  It  had  to  come  somewhere; 
just  that;  on  any  summer's  afternoon  .  .  .  people  did 
tilings ;  hands  placed  a  screen,  people  cleared  you  away. 
...  It  was  a  relief  to  realise  that  there  were  hospitals  to 
die  in ;  worry  and  torture  of  mind  could  end  here.  Perhaps 
it  might  be  easier  with  people  all  round  you  than  in  a  little 
room.  There  were  hospitals  to  be  ill  in  and  somewhere 
to  die  neatly,  however  poor  you  were.  It  was  a  relief  .  .  . 
"  she's  always  the  last  to  get  up ;  still  snoring  when  every- 
body's fussing  and  washing."  That  would  be  me  ...  it 
lit  up  the  hostel.  Miss  Dear  liked  that  time  of  fussing  and 
washing  in  company  with  all  the  other  cubicles  fussing  and 
washing.  To  be  very  poor  meant  getting  more  and  more 
social  life  with  no  appearances  to  keep  up,  getting  up  each 
day  with  a  holiday  feeling  of  one  more  day  and  the  surprise 
of  seeing  everybody  again;  and  the  certainty  that  if  you 
died  somebody  would  do  something.  Certainly  it  was  this 
knowledge  that  gave  Miss  Dear  her  peculiar  strength.  She 
was  a  nurse  and  knew  how  everything  was  done.  She 
knew  that  people,  all  kinds  of  people  were  people  and  would 
do  things.  When  one  was  quite  alone  one  could  not  believe 
this.  Besides  no  one  would  do  anything  for  me.  I  don't 
want  anyone  to.  I  should  hate  the  face  of  a  nurse  who 
put  a  screen  round  my  bed.  I  shall  not  die  like  that.  I 
shall  die  in  some  other  way,  out  in  the  sun,  with  —  yes  - 
oh  yes  —  Tah-dee,  t'dee,  t'dee  —  t'dee. 

"  It  must  be  funny  for  a  nurse  to  be  in  a  hospital." 

"  It's  a  little  too  funny  sometimes  dear  —  you  know  too 
much  about  what  you're  in  for." 

"  Ilikeyourredjacket.     Good  Heavens!  " 

"  That's  nothing  dear.     He  does  that  all  the  afternoon." 

"  How  can  you  stand  it?" 

"  It's  Hobson's  choice,  madam." 


THE   TUNNEL  303 

The  parrot  uttered  three  successive  squawks  fuller  and 
harsher  and  even  more  shrill  than  the  first. 

"He's  just  tuning  up;  he  always  does  in  the  afternoon 
just  as  everybody  is  trying  to  get  a  little  sleep." 

"  But  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  It's  monstrous,  in 
a  hospital.     Why  don't  you  all  complain." 

"  'Sh  dear ;  he  belongs  to  Matron." 

"  Why  doesn't  she  have  him  in  her  room  ?  Shut  up, 
polly."  " 

"  He'd  be  rather  a  roomful  in  a  little  room." 

"  Well  —  what  is  he  here?  It's  the  wickedest  thing  of 
its  kind  I've  ever  heard  of ;  some  great  fat  healthy  woman 
.  .  .  why  don't  the  doctors  stop  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  they  hardly  notice  it  dear.  There's  such  a 
bustle  going  on  in  the  morning  when  they  all  come  round." 

"  But  hang  it  all  she's  here  to  look  after  you,  not  to  leave 
her  luggage  all  over  the  ward." 

3 

The  ripe  afternoon  light  .  .  .  even  outside  a  hospital 
.  .  .  the  strange  indistinguishable  friend,  mighty  welcome, 
unutterable  happiness.  Oh  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 
Oh  grave,  where  is  thy  victory?  The  light  has  no  end.  I 
know  it  and  it  knows  me,  no  misunderstanding,  no  barrier. 
I  love  you  —  people  say  things.  But  nothing  that  anybody 
says  has  any  meaning.  Nothing  that  anybody  says  has  any 
meaning.  There  is  something  more  than  anything  that 
anybody  says,  that  comes  first,  before  they  speak  .  .  . 
vehicles  travelling  along  through  heaven;  everybody  in 
heaven  without  knowing  it ;  the  sound  the  vehicles  made 
all  together,  sounding  out  through  the  universe  .  .  .  life 
touches  your  heart  like  dew;  that  is  true  ...  the  edge  of 
his  greasy  knowing  selfish  hair  touches  the  light ;  he  brushes 
it;  there  is  something  in  him  that   remembers.     It   is   in 


304  T  HE   TUNNEL 

everybody;  but  they  won't  stop.  How  maddening.  But 
they  know.  When  people  die  they  must  stop.  Then  they 
remember.  Remorse  may  be  complete ;  until  it  is  complete 
you  cannot  live.  When  it  is  complete  something  is  burned 
away  .  .  .  ou-agh,  flows  out  of  you,  burning,  inky,  acid, 
flows  right  out  .  .  .  purged  .  .  .  though  thy  sins  are  as 
scarlet  they  shall  be  white  as  snow.  Then  the  light  is  there, 
nothing  but  the  light,  and  new  memory,  sweet  and  bright ; 
but  only  when  you  have  been  killed  by  remorse. 

This  is  what  is  meant  by  a  purple  twilight.  Lamps 
alight,  small  round  lights,  each  in  place,  shedding  no 
radiance,  white  day  lingering  on  the  stone  pillars  of  the 
great  crescent,  the  park  railings  distinct,  the  trees  shrouded 
but  looming  very  large  and  permanent,  the  air  wide  and 
high  and  purple,  darkness  alight  and  warm.  Far  far  away 
beyond  the  length  of  two  endless  months  is  Christmas. 
This  kind  of  day  lived  for  ever.  It  stood  still.  The  whole 
year,  funny  little  distant  fussy  thing  stood  still  in  this  sort 
of  day.  You  could  take  it  in  your  hand  and  look  at  it. 
Nobody  could  touch  this.  People  and  books  and  all  those 
things  that  men  had  done,  in  the  British  Museum  were  a 
crackling  noise,  outside.  .  .  .  Les  yeux  gris,  vont  au 
paradis.  That  was  the  two  poplars  standing  one  each  side 
of  the  little  break  in  the  railings,  shooting  up ;  the  space 
between  them  shaped  by  their  shapes,  leading  somewhere, 
I  must  have  been  through  there;  it's  the  park.  I  don't  re- 
member. It  isn't.  It's  waiting.  One  day  I  will  go 
through.  Les  yeux  gris,  vont  au  paradis.  Going  along, 
along,  the  twilight  hides  your  shabby  clothes.  They  are 
not  shabby.  They  are  clothes  you  go  along  in.  funny ; 
jolly.  Everything's  here,  any  bit  of  anything,  clear  in  your 
brain  ;  you  can  look  at  it.  What  a  terrific  thing  a  person  is ; 
bigger  than  anything.     How  funny   it  is  to  be  a  person. 


THE   TUNNEL  305 

You  can  never  not  have  been  a  person.  Bouleversement. 
It's  a  fait  bouleversant.  C/im^-how-rummy.  It's  enough. 
Du,  Heilige,  rufe  dein  Kind  zuriick,  ich  habe  genossen  dass 
irdische  Gliick;  ich  habe  geliebt  und  gelebet.  .  .  .  Oh  let 
the  solid  earth  not  fail  beneath  my  feet,  until  I  am  quite 
quite  sure.  .  .  .  Hullo,  old  Euston  Road,  beloved  of  my 
soul,  my  own  country,  my  native  heath.  There'll  still  be  a 
glimmer  on  the  table  when  I  light  the  lamp  .  .  .  how  shall 
I  write  it  down,  the  sound  the  little  boy  made  as  he  care- 
fully carried  the  milk  jug  .  .  .  going  along,  trusted,  trusted, 
you  could  see  it,  you  could  see  his  mother.  His  legs  came 
along,  little  loose  feet,  looking  after  themselves,  pottering, 
behind  him.  All  his  body  was  in  the  hand  carrying  the  milk 
jug.  When  he  had  done  carrying  the  milk  jug  he  would 
run;  running  along  the  pavement  amongst  people,  with 
cool  round  eyes  not  looking  at  anything.  Where  the  crowd 
prevented  his  running  he  would  jog  up  and  down  as  he 
walked,  until  he  could  run  again,  bumping  solemnly  up  and 
down  amongst  the  people ;  boy. 

4 

The  turning  of  the  key  in  the  latch  was  lively  with  the 
vision  of  the  jumping  boy.  The  flare  of  the  match  in  the 
unlit  hall  lit  up  eternity.  The  front  door  was  open,  eternity 
poured  in  and  on  up  the  stairs.  At  one  of  those  great  stair- 
case windows  where  the  last  of  the  twilight  stood  a  sudden 
light  of  morning  would  not  be  surprising.  Of  course  a 
letter;  curly  curious  statements  on  the  hall-stand. 

There  is  mother-of-pearl,  nacre;  twilight  nacre;  crepus- 
cule  nacre ;  I  must  wait  until  it  is  gone.  It  is  a  visitor ; 
pearly  freshness  pouring  in ;  but  if  I  wait  I  may  feel  dif- 
ferent. With  the  blind  up  the  lamp  will  be  a  lamp  in  it; 
twilight  outside,  the  lamp  on  the  edge  of  it,  making  the 
room  gold,  edged  with  twilight. 


3o6  THETUNNEL 

I  can't  go  to-night.  It's  all  here;  I  must  stay  here. 
Botheration.  It's  Eve's  fault.  Eve  would  rather  go  out 
and  see  that  girl  than  stay  here.  Eve  likes  getting  tied  up 
with  people.  I  zvon't  get  tied  up;  it  drives  everything  away. 
Now  I've  read  the  letter  I  must  go.  There'll  be  afterwards 
when  I  get  back.  No  one  has  any  power  over  me.  I  shall 
be  coming  back.     I  shall  always  be  coming  back. 

5 
Perhaps  it  had  been  Madame  Tussaud's  that  had  made 
this  row  of  houses  generally  invisible ;  perhaps  their  own 
aw  fulness.  When  she  found  herself  opposite  them,  Miriam 
recognised  them  at  once.  By  day  they  were  one  high  long 
lifeless  smoke-grimed  facade  fronted  by  gardens  colourless 
with  grime,  showing  at  its  thickest  on  the  leaves  of  an 
occasional  laurel.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  the 
houses  could  be  occupied.  She  had  seen  them  now  and 
again  as  reflectors  of  the  grime  of  the  Metropolitan  Rail- 
way. Its  smoke  poured  up  over  their  faces  as  the  smoke 
from  a  kitchen  fire  pours  over  the  back  of  a  range.  The 
sight  of  them  brought  nothing  to  her  mind  but  the  inside 
of  the  Metropolitan  Railway;  the  feeling  of  one's  skin 
prickling  with  grime  the  sense  of  one's  smoke-grimed 
clothes.  There  was  nothing  in  that  strip  between  Madame 
Tussaud's  and  the  returning  into  Baker  Street  but  the  sense 
of  exposure  to  grime  ...  a  little  low  grimed  wall  sur- 
mounted by  paintless  sooty  iron  railings.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  road  a  high  brown  wall,  protecting  whatever 
was  behind,  took  the  grime  in  one  thick  covering,  here  it 
spread  over  the  exposed  gardens  and  facades  turning  her 
eyes  away.  To-night  they  looked  almost  as  untenanted  as 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  think  them.  Here  and  there  on 
the  black  expanse  a  window  showed  a  blurred  light.     The 


THE   TUNNEL  307 

house  she  sought  appeared  to  be  in  total  darkness.  The 
iron  gate  crumbled  harshly  against  her  gloves  as  she  set 
her  weight  against  the  rusty  hinges.  Gritty  dust  sounded 
under  her  feet  along  the  pathway  and  up  the  shallow  steps 
leading  to  the  unlit  doorway. 


Her  flight  up  through  the  sickly  sweet-smelling  murk 
of  the  long  staircase  ended  in  a  little  top  back  room  brilliant 
with  unglobed  gaslight.  Miss  Dear  got  her  quickly  into 
the  room  and  stood  smiling  and  waiting  for  a  moment  for 
her  to  speak.  Miriam  stood  nonplussed,  catching  at  the 
feelings  that  rushed  through  her  and  the  thoughts  that 
spoke  in  her  mind.  Distracted  by  the  picture  of  the  calm 
tall,  gold-topped  figure  in  the  long  grey  skirt  and  the  pale 
pink  flannel  dressing- jacket.  Miss  Dear  was  smiling  the 
smile  of  one  who  has  a  great  secret  to  impart.  There  was 
a  saucepan  or  frying  pan  or  something  —  with  a  handle  — 
sticking  out.  ..."  I'm  glad  you've  brought  a  book  "  said 
Miss  Dear.  The  room  was  closing  up  and  up  .  .  .  the 
door  was  shut.  Miriam's  exasperation  flew  out.  She  felt 
it  fly  out.  What  would  Miss  Dear  do  or  say?  "I  'oped 
you'd  come  "  she  said  in  her  softest  most  thoughtful  tones. 
"  I've  been  rushing  about  and  rushing  about."  She  turned 
with  her  swift  limber  silent-footed  movement  to  the  thing 
on  the  gas-ring.  "  Sit  down  dear  "  she  said,  as  one  giving 
permission,  and  began  rustling  a  paper  packet.  A  haddock 
came  forth  and  the  slender  thoughtful  fingers  plucked  and 
picked  at  it  and  lifted  it  gingerly  into  the  shallow  steaming 
pan.  Miriam's  thoughts  whirled  to  her  room,  to  the  dark 
sky-domed  streets,  to  the  coming  morrow.  They  flew  about 
all  over  her  life.  The  cane-seated  chair  thrilled  her  with  a 
fresh  sense  of  anger. 


308  T  H  E   T  U  N  N  E  L 

"  I've  been  shopping  and  rushing  about  "  said  Miss  Dear 
disengaging  a  small  crusty  loaf  from  its  paper  bag.  Miriam 
stared  gloomily  about  and  waited. 

"Do  you  like  haddock,  dear?" 

"  Oh  —  well  —  I  don't  know  —  yes  I  think  I  do." 

The  fish  smelled  very  savoury.  It  was  wonderful  and 
astonishing  to  know  how  to  cook  a  real  meal ;  in  a  tiny 
room;  cheap  ...  the  lovely  little  loaf  and  the  wholesome 
solid  fish  would  cost  less  than  a  small  egg  and  roll  and  but- 
ter at  an  A. B.C.  How  did  people  find  out  how  to  do  these 
things  ? 

"  You  know  how  to  cook  ?  " 

"  I  laddock  doesn't  hardly  need  any  cooking  "  said  Miss 
Dear,  shifting  the  fish  about  by  its  tail. 

7 

"  What  is  your  book  dear?  " 

-  Oh  —  Villette." 

"  Is  it  a  pretty  book  ?  " 

She  didn't  want  to  know.  She  was  saying  something 
else.  .  .  .  How  to  mention  it?  Why  say  anything  about 
it?  But  no  one  had  ever  asked.  No  one  had  known. 
This  woman  was  the  first.  She  of  all  people  was  causing 
the  first  time  of  speaking  of  it. 

"  I  bought  it  when  I  was  fifteen,"  said  Miriam  vaguely, 
"  and  a  Byron  —  with  some  money  I  had ;  seven  and  six." 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  I  didn't  care  for  the  Byron ;  but  it  was  a  jolly  edition ; 
padded  leather  with  rounded  corners  and  gilt  edged  leaves." 

"  Oh." 

"  I've  been  reading  this  thing  ever  since  I  came  back  from 
my  holidays." 

"  It  doesn't  look  very  big." 


THE   TUNNEL  309 

Miriam's  voice  trembled.  "  I  don't  mean  that.  When 
I've  finished  it  I  begin  again." 

"  I  wish  you  would  read  it  to  me." 

Miriam  recoiled.  Anything  would  have  done ;  Donovan 
or  anything.  .  .  .  But  something  had  sprung  into  the  room. 
She  gazed  at  the  calm  profile,  the  long  slender  figure,  the 
clear  grey  and  pink,  the  pink  frill  of  the  jacket  falling  back 
from  the  soft  fair  hair  turned  cleanly  up,  the  clean  fluffy 
curve  of  the  skull,  the  serene  line  of  the  brow  bent  in 
abstracted  contemplation  of  the  steaming  pan.  "  I  believe 
you'd  like  it "  she  said  brightly. 

"  I  should  love  you  to  read  to  me  when  we've  'ad  our 
supper." 

'/  Oh  —  I've  had  my  supper." 

"  A  bit  of  haddock  won't  hurt  you  dear.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid 
we  shall  have  to  be  very  knockabout;  I've  got  a  knife  and 
a  fork  but  no  plates  at  present.  It  comes  of  living  in  a 
box"  said  Miss  Dear  pouring  off  the  steaming  water  into 
the  slop-pail. 

"  I've  had  my  supper  —  really.  I'll  read  while  you  have 
yours." 

"  Well,  don't  sit  out  in  the  middle  of  the  room  dear." 

"  I'm  all  right "  said  Miriam  impatiently,  finding  the 
beginning  of  the  first  chapter.  Her  hands  clung  to  the  book. 
She  had  not  made  herself  at  home  as  Eve  would  have  done 
and  talked.  Now,  those  words  would  sound  aloud,  in  a 
room.  Someone  would  hear  and  see.  Miss  Dear  would 
not  know  what  it  was.  But  she  would  hear  and  see  some- 
thing. 

"  It's  by  a  woman  called  Charlotte  Bronte  "  she  said  and 
began  headlong  with  the  gaslight  in  her  eyes. 

The  familiar  words  sounded  chilly  and  poor.  Everything 
in  the  room  grew  very  distinct.  Before  she  had  finished 
the  chapter  Miriam  knew  the  position  of  each  piece  of  furni- 


3io  THE   TUNNEL 

ture.     Miss  Dear  sat  very  still.     Was  she  listening  patiently 
like  a  mother,  or  wife,  thinking  of  the  reader  as  well  as 
of  what  was  read,  and  with  her  own  thoughts  running  along 
independently,    interested    now    and    again    in    some    single 
thing  in  the  narrative,  something  that  reminded  her  of  some 
experience  of   her  own   or   some  person   she  knew?     Xo, 
there    was    something    different.     However   little    she    saw 
and  heard,  something  was  happening.     They  were  looking 
and   hearing   together  .  .  .  did    she    feel    anything   of    the 
grey  .  .  .  grey  .  .  .  grey  made  up  of  all  the  colours  there 
are;  all  the  colours,  seething  into  an  even  grey  ...  she 
wondered  as  she  read  on  almost  by  heart,  at  the  rare  free- 
dom of  her  thoughts,  ranging  about.     The  book  was  cold 
and  unreal  compared  to  what  it  was  when  she  read  it  alone. 
But  something  was  happening.     Something  was  passing  to 
and  fro  between  them,  behind  the  text;  a  conversation  be- 
tween them  that  the  text,  the  calm  quiet  grey  that  was  the 
outer   layer   of   the   tumult,   brought   into   being.     If    they 
should  read  on,  the  conversation  would  deepen.     A  glow 
ran  through  her  at  the  thought.     She   felt  that   in   some 
way  she  was  like  a  man  reading  to  a  woman,  but  the  read- 
ing did  not  separate  them  like  a  man's  reading  did.     She 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  thought.     A  man's  reading 
was  not  reading;  not  a  looking  and  a  listening  so  that  things 
came  into  the  room.     It  was  always  an  assertion  of  himself. 
Men  read  in  loud  harsh  unnatural  voices,  in  sentences,  or 
with  voices  that  were  a  commentary  on  the  text,  as  if  they 
were  telling  you  what  to  think  .  .  .  they  preferred  reading 
to  being  read  to;  they  read  as  if  they  were  the  authors  of 
the  text.     Nothing  could  get  through  them  but  what  they 
saw.     They  were  like  showmen.  .  .  . 

"  Go  on,  dear." 

"  My  voice   is  getting  tired.     It  must  be  all  hours.     I 
ought  to  have  gone;  ages  ago,"  said  Miriam  settling  her- 


THE   TUNNEL  311 

self  in  the  little  chair  with  the  book  standing  opened  on  the 
floor  at  her  side. 

"  The  time  does  pass  quickly,  when  it  is  pleasantly  oc- 
cupied." 

A  cigarette  now  would  not  be  staying  on.  It  would  be 
like  putting  on  one's  hat.  Then  the  visit  would  be  over; 
without  having  taken  place.  The  incident  would  have 
made  no  break  in  freedom.  They  had  been  both  absent 
from  the  room  nearly  all  the  time.  Perhaps  that  was  why 
husbands  so  often  took  to  reading  to  their  wives,  when 
they  stayed  at  home  at  all ;  to  avoid  being  in  the  room 
listening  to  their  condemning  silences  or  to  their  speech, 
speech  with  all  the  saucepan  and  comfort  thoughts  simmer- 
ing behind  it. 

"  I  haven't  had  much  time  to  attend  to  study.  When 
you've  got  to  get  your  living  there's  too  much  else  to  do." 

Miriam  glanced  sharply.  Had  she  wanted  other  things 
in  the  years  of  her  strange  occupation?  She  had  gone  in 
for  nursing  sentimentally  and  now  she  knew  the  other 
side ;  doing  everything  to  time,  careful  carrying  out  of  the 
changing  experiments  of  doctors.  Her  reputation  and  liv- 
ing depended  on  that;  their  reputation  and  living  depended 
on  her.  And  she  had  to  go  on,  because  it  was  her  living. 
.  .  .  Miss  Dear  was  dispensing  little  gestures  with  bent 
head  held  high  and  inturned  eyes.  She  was  holding  up  the 
worth  and  dignity  of  her  career.  It  had  meant  sacrifices 
that  left  her  mind  enslaved.  But  all  the  same  she  thought 
excuses  were  necessary.  She  resented  being  illiterate.  She 
had  a  brain  somewhere,  groping  and  starved.  What  could 
she  do?  It  was  too  late.  Wrhat  a  shame  .  .  .  serene 
golden  comeliness,  slender  feet  and  hands,  strange  ability 
and  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  she  knew,  knew  there  was 
something  that  ought  to  be  hers.  Miriam  thrilled  with  pity. 
The  inturned  eyes  sent  out  a  challenging  blue  flash  that 


3i2  TH  E   TUN  NEL 

expanded  to  a  smile.  Miriam  recoiled  battling  in  the  grip 
of  the  smile. 

"  I  wish  you'd  come  round  earlier  to  morrow  dear,  and 
have  some  supper  here." 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  here  ?  "...  to  come 
again  and  read  further  and  find  that  strange  concentration 
that  made  one  see  into  things.     Did  she  really  like  it? 

"  Well  dear  you  see  I  don't  know.  I  must  settle  up  my 
affairs  a  little.  I  don't  know  where  I  am  with  one  thing 
and  another.  I  must  leave  it  in  the  hands  of  an  'igher 
power."  She  folded  her  hands  and  sat  motionless  with 
inturned  eyes,  making  the  little  movements  with  her  lips 
that  would  lead  to  further  speech,  a  flashing  forth  of  some- 
thing. .  .  . 

"  Well,  I'll  see  "  said  Miriam  getting  up. 

11  I  shall  be  looking  for  you." 


CHAPTER    XXXI 


IT  was  .  .  .  jolly;  to  have  something  one  was  obliged 
to  do  every  evening  —  but  it  could  not  go  on.  Next 
week-end,  the  Brooms,  that  would  be  an  excuse  for  making 
a  break.  She  must  have  other  friends  she  could  turn  to 
.  .  .  she  must  know  one  could  not  go  on.  But  bustling  off 
every  evening  regularly  to  the  same  place  with  things  to 
get  for  somebody  was  evidently  good  in  some  way  .  .  . 
health-giving  and  strength-giving.  .  .  . 

She  found  Miss  Dear  in  bed ;  sitting  up,  more  pink  and 
gold  then  ever.  There  was  a  deep  lace  frill  on  the  pink 
jacket.  She  smiled  deeply,  a  curious  deep  smile  that  looked 
like  "  a  smile  of  perfect  love  and  confidence  "...  it  zws 
partly  that.  She  was  grateful,  and  admiring.  That  was 
all  right.  But  it  could  not  go  on ;  and  now  illness.  Miriam 
was  aghast.  Miss  Dear  seemed  more  herself  than  ever, 
sitting  up  in  bed,  just  as  she  had  been  at  the  hospital. 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"  Not  really  ill,  de-er.  I've  had  a  touch  of  my  epilepti- 
form neuralgia."     Miriam  sat  staring  angrily  at  the  floor. 

"  It's  enough  to  make  anyone  ill." 

"What  is?" 

"  To  be  sitoowated  as  I  am." 

"  You  haven't  been  able  to  hear  of  a  case?  " 

"  How  can  I  take  a  case  dear  when  I  haven't  got  my 
uniforms  ?  " 

3i3 


3i4  THE    TUNNEL 

"  Did  you  sell  them?" 

"  Aro  de-er.  They're  with  all  the  rest  of  my  things  at 
the  hostel.  Just  because  there's  a  small  balance  owing  they 
refuse  to  give  up  my  box.  I've  told  them  I'll  settle  it  as 
soon  as  my  pecuniary  affairs  are  in  order." 

11  I  see.  That  was  why  you  didn't  send  your  box  on  to 
me?  You  know  I  could  pay  that  off  if  you  like,  if  it  isn't 
too  much." 

"  No  dear  I  couldn't  hear  of  such  a  thing." 

"  But  you  must  get  work,  or  something.  Do  your  friends 
know  how  things  are?  " 

"  There  is  no  one  I  should  care  to  turn  to  at  the  mo- 
ment." 

"  Rut  the  people  at  the  Nursing  Association?" 

Miss  Dear  flushed  and  frowned.  "  Don't  think  of  them 
dear.  I've  told  you  my  opinion  of  the  superintendent  and 
the  nurses  are  in  pretty  much  the  same  box  as  I  am.  More 
than  one  of  them  owes  me  money." 

"But  surely  if  they  knew " 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  wish  to  apply  to  Baker  Street  at  the 
present  time." 

"  But  you  must  apply  to  someone.  Something  must  be 
done.  You  see  I  can't,  I  shan't  be  able  to  go  on  in- 
definitely." 

Miss  Dear's  face  broke  into  weeping.  Miriam  sat  smart- 
ing under  her  own  brutality  .  .  .  poverty  is  brutalising,  she 
reflected  miserably,  excusing  herself.  It  makes  you  help- 
less and  makes  sick  people  fearful  and  hateful.  It  ought 
not  to  be  like  that.  One  can't  even  give  way  to  one's  na- 
tural feelings.  What  ought  she  to  have  done?  To  have 
spoken  gently  .  .  .  you  see  dear  .  .  .  she  could  hear 
women's  voices  saying  it  .  .  .  my  resources  are  not  un- 
limited, we  must  try  and  think  what  is  the  best  thing  to  be 
done  .  .  .  humbug  .  .  .  they    would    be    feeling    just    as 


THE   TUNNEL  315 

frightened  just  as  self-protecting,  inside.  There  were 
people  in  books  who  shouldered  things  and  got  into  debt, 
just  for  any  casual,  helpless  person.  But  it  would  have  to 
come  on  somebody,  in  the  end.  What  then?  Bustling 
people  with  plans  .  .  .  '  it's  no  good  sitting  still  waiting  for 
Providence '  .  .  .  but  that  was  just  what  one  wanted  to 
avoid  ...  it  had  been  wonderful,  sometimes  in  the  little 
room.  It  was  that  that  had  been  outraged.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  struck  a  blow. 

"  I  have  done  something  dear." 

"What?" 

"  I've  sent  for  Dr.  Ashley-Densley." 


"  There  is  our  gentleman,"  said  Miss  Dear  tranquilly 
just  before  midnight.  Miriam  moved  away  and  stood  by 
the  window  as  the  door  split  wide  and  a  tall  grey-clad 
figure  plunged  lightly  into  the  room.  Miriam  missed  his 
first  questions  in  her  observations  of  his  well-controlled 
fatigue  and  annoyance,  his  astonishing  height  and  slender- 
ness  and  the  curious  wide  softness  of  his  voice.  Suddenly 
she  realised  that  he  was  going.  He  was  not  going  to  take 
anything  in  hand  or  do  anything.  He  had  got  up  from  the 
chair  by  the  bedside  and  was  scribbling  something  on  an 
envelope  ...  no  sleep  for  two  nights  he  said  evenly  in  the 
soft  musical  girlish  tones.  A  prescription  .  .  .  then  he'd 
be  off. 

"Do  you  know  Thomas's?"  he  said  colourlessly. 

"  Do  you  know  Thomas's  —  the  chemist  —  in  Baker 
Street?"  he  said  casting  a  half-glance  in  her  direction  as 
he  wrote  on. 

"  I  do,"  said  Miriam  coldly. 

"  Would  you  be  afraid  to  go  round  there  now  ?  " 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  said  Miriam  acidly. 


316  THE    TUNNEL 

"  Well,  if  you're  not  afraid,  go  to  Thomas's,  get  this 
made  up,  give  Miss  Dear  a  dose  and  if  it  does  not  take 
effect,  another  in  two  hours'  time." 

"  You  may  leave  it  with  me." 

"All  right.  I'll  be  off.  I'll  try  to  look  in  sometime 
to-morrow,"  he  said  turning  to  Miss  Dear.  "  Bye-bye " 
and  he  was  gone. 


When  the  grey  of  morning  began  to  show  behind  the  blind 
Miriam's  thoughts  came  back  to  the  figure  on  the  bed. 
Miss  Dear  was  peacefully  asleep  lying  on  her  back  with 
her  head  thrown  back  upon  the  pillow.  Her  face  looked 
stonily  pure  and  stern ;  and  colourless  in  the  grey  light. 
There  was  a  sheen  on  her  forehead  like  the  sheen  on  the 
foreheads  of  old  people.  She  had  probably  been  asleep 
ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  stillness.  Everybody  was 
getting  up.  "  London  was  getting  up."  That  man  in  the 
Referee  knew  what  it  was,  that  feeling  when  you  live  right 
in  London,  of  being  a  Londoner,  the  thing  that  made  it 
enough  to  be  a  Londoner,  getting  up,  in  London ;  the  thing 
that  made  real  Londoners  different  to  everyone  else,  going 
about  with  a  sense  that  made  them  alive.  The  very  idea 
of  living  anywhere  but  in  London,  when  one  thought  about 
it,  produced  a  blank  sensation  in  the  heart.  What  was 
it  I  said  the  other  day?  "London's  got  me.  It's  taking 
my  health  and  eating  up  my  youth.  It  may  as  well  have 
what  remains.  .  .  ."  Something  stirred  powerfully,  unable 
to  get  to  her  through  her  torpid  body.  Her  weary  brain 
spent  its  last  strength  on  the  words,  she  had  only  half 
meant  them  when  they  were  spoken.  Now,  once  she  was 
free  again,  to  be  just  a  Londoner  she  would  ask  nothing 
more  of  life.  It  would  be  the  answer  to  all  questions ; 
the    perfect    unfailing   thing,   guiding   all    one's    decisions. 


THE   TUNNEL  317 

And  an  ill-paid  clerkship  was  its  best  possible  protection ; 
keeping  one  at  a  quiet  centre,  alone  in  a  little  room,  un- 
touched by  human  relationships,  undisturbed  by  the  neces- 
sity of  being  anything.  Nurses  and  teachers  and  doctors 
and  all  the  people  who  were  doing  special  things  sur- 
rounded by  people  and  talk  were  not  Londoners.  Clerks 
were,  unless  they  lived  in  suburbs,  the  people  who  lived 
in  St.  Pancras  and  Bloomsbury  and  in  Seven  Dials  and  all 
round  Soho  and  in  all  the  slums  and  back  streets  every- 
where were.  She  would  be  again  soon  .  .  .  not  a  woman 
...  a  Londoner. 

She  rose  from  her  chair  feeling  hardly  able  to  stand. 
The  long  endurance  in  the  cold  room  had  led  to  nothing 
but  the  beginning  of  a  day  without  strength  —  no  one 
knowing  what  she  had  gone  through.  Three  days  and 
nights  of  nursing  Eve  had  produced  only  a  feverish  gaiety. 
It  was  London  that  killed  you. 

"  I  will  come  in  at  lunch-time  "  she  scribbled  on  the 
back  of  an  envelope,  and  left  it  near  one  of  the  hands  out- 
stretched on  the  coverlet. 

Outdoors  it  was  quite  light,  a  soft  grey  morning,  about 
eight  o'clock.  People  were  moving  about  the  streets.  The 
day  would  be  got  through  somehow.  Tomorrow  she  would 
be  herself  again. 

4 

"  Has  she  applied  to  the  Association  to  which  she  be- 
longs?" 

"  I  think  she  wishes  for  some  reason  to  keep  away  from 
them  just  now.  She  suggested  that  I  should  come  to  you 
when  I  asked  her  if  there  was  anyone  to  whom  she  could 
turn.  She  told  me  you  had  helped  her  to  have  a  holiday 
in  a  convalescent  home."  These  were  the  right  people. 
The  quiet  grey  house,  the  high  church  room,  the  delicate 


318  THE    TUNNEL 

outlines  of  the  woman,  clear  and  fine  in  spite  of  all  the 
comfort.  .  .  .  The  All  Souls  Nursing  Sisters.  .  .  .  They 
were  different  .  .  .  emotional  and  unhygienic  .  .  .  cush- 
ions and  hot  water  bottles  .  .  .  good  food  .  .  .  early  serv- 
ice —  Lent  —  stuffy  churches  —  fasting.  But  they  would 
not  pass  by  on  the  other  side  .  .  .  she  sat  waiting  .  .  .  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room  made  much  of  her  weeks  of  charity 
and  her  long  night  of  watching,  the  quiet  presence  in  it 
knew  of  these  things  without  being  told.  The  weariness 
of  her  voice  had  poured  out  its  burden,  meeting  and  flowing 
into  the  patient  weariness  of  the  other  women  and  chang- 
ing. There  was  no  longer  any  anger  or  impatience.  To- 
gether, consulting  as  accomplices,  they  would  see  what  was 
the  best  thing  to  do  —  whatever  it  was  would  be  something 
done  on  a  long  long  road  going  on  forever ;  nobody  outside, 
nobody  left  behind.  When  they  had  decided  they  would 
leave  it,  happy  and  serene  and  glance  at  the  invisible  sun 
and  make  little  confident  jests  together.  She  was  like  Mrs. 
Bailey  —  and  someone  further  back  —  mother.  This  was 
the  secret  life  of  women.  They  smiled  at  God.  But  they 
all  flattered  men.     All  these  women.  .  .  . 

"  They  ought  to  be  informed.  Will  you  call  on  them  — 
to-day?     Or  would  you  prefer  that  I  should  do  so?" 

"I  will  go  —  at  lunch-time"  said  Miriam  promptly. 

"  Meanwhile  I  shall  inform  the  clergy.  It  is  a  case  for 
the  parish.  You  must  not  bear  the  responsibility  a  moment 
longer." 

Miriam  relaxed  in  her  capacious  chair,  a  dimness  before 
her  eyes.  The  voice  was  going  on,  unnoticing,  the  figure 
had  turned  towards  a  bureau.  There  were  little  straggles 
about  the  fine  hair  —  Miss  Jenny  Perne  —  the  Pernes.  She 
was  a  lonely  old  maid.  .  .  .  One  must  listen  .  .  .  but  Lon- 
don   had    sprung    back  ...  in    full    open    midday    roar; 


THE   TUNNEL  319 

brilliant  and  fresh ;  dim,  intimate,  vast,  from  the  darkness. 
This  woman  preferred  some  provincial  town  .  .  .  Wolver- 
hampton .  .  .  Wolverhampton  ...  in  the  little  room  in 
Marylebone  Road  Miss  Dear  was  unconsciously  sleeping 
—  a  pauper. 

5 

There  was  a  large  bunch  of  black  grapes  on  the  little 
table  by  the  bedside  and  a  book. 

"  Hullo  you  literary  female "  said  Miriam  seizing  it 
.  .  .  Red  Pottage  ...  a  curious  novelish  name,  difficult  to 
understand.  Miss  Dear  sat  up,  straight  and  brisk,  bloom- 
ing smiles.  What  an  easy  life.  The  light  changing  in 
the  room  and  people  bringing  novels  and  grapes,  smart 
new  novels  that  people  were  reading. 

"  What  did  you  do  at  lunch  time  dear?  " 

"  Oh  I  had  to  go  and  see  a  female  unexpectedly." 

"  I  found  your  note  and  thought  perhaps  you  had  called 
in  at  Baker  Street." 

"  At  your  Association,  d'you  mean  ?  Oh  my  dear  lady." 
Miriam  shook  her  thoughts  about,  pushing  back.  "  She 
owes  money  to  almost  every  nurse  in  this  house  and  seems 
to  have  given  in  in  every  way  "  and  bringing  forward  "  one 
of  our  very  best  nurses  for  five  years." 

"  Oh  I  went  to  see  the  woman  in  Queen  Square  this 
morning." 

"  I  know  you  did  dear."  Miss  Dear  bridled  in  her  secret 
way,  averted,  and  preparing  to  speak.  It  was  over.  She 
did  not  seem  to  mind.  "  I  liked  her  "  said  Miriam  hastily, 
leaping  across  the  gap,  longing  to  know  what  had  been  done, 
beating  out  anywhere  to  rid  her  face  of  the  lines  of  shame. 
She  was  sitting  before  a  judge  .  .  .  being  looked  through 
and  through.  .  .  .  Noo,  Tonalt,  suggest  a  tow-pic.  .  .  . 


320  THETUNNEL 

"  She's  a  sweet  woman  "  said  Miss  Dear  patronisingly. 

"  She's  brought  you  some  nice  things  "...  poverty  was 
worse  if  you  were  not  poor  enough.  .  .  . 

"  Oh  no  dear.  The  curate  brought  these.  He  called 
twice  this  morning.  You  did  me  a  good  turn.  He's  a  real 
friend." 

"  Oh  —  oh,  I'm  so  glad." 

"  Yes  —  he's  a  nice  little  man.  He  was  most  dreadfully 
upset." 

"What  can  he  do?" 

"  How  do  you  mean  dear?  " 

"  Well  in  general  ?  " 

"  He's  going  to  do  everything  dear.     I'm  not  to  worry." 

"  How  splendid !  " 

"  He  came  in  first  thing  and  saw  how  things  stood  and 
came  in  again  at  the  end  of  the  morning  with  these  things. 
He's  sending  me  some  wine,  from  his  own  cellar." 

Miriam  gazed,  her  thoughts  tumbling  incoherently. 

"  He  was  most  dreadfully  upset.  He  could  not  write 
his  sermon.  He  kept  thinking  it  might  be  one  of  his  own 
sisters  in  the  same  sitawation.  He  couldn't  rest  till  he  came 
back." 

Standing  back  ...  all  the  time  .  .  .  delicately  preparing 
to  speak  .  .  .  presiding  over  them  all  .  .  .  over  herself 
too  .  .  . 

"  He's  a  real  friend." 

"Have  you  looked  at  the  book?"  There  was  nothing 
more  to  do. 

"  No  dear.  He  said  it  had  interested  him  very  much. 
He  reads  them  for  his  sermons  you  see  "...  she  put  out 
her  hand  and  touched  the  volume  .  .  .  John's  books  .  .  . 
Henry  is  so  interested  in  photography  .  .  .  unknowing  pa- 
tronising respectful  gestures.  ,  ,  ,  "  Poor  little  man.  He 
was  dreadfully  upset,'' 


THE   TUNNEL  321 

"  We'd  better  read  it." 

"  What  time  are  you  coming  dear  ?  " 

"Oh  — well." 

"  I'm  to  have  my  meals  regular.  Mr.  Taunton  has  seen 
the  landlady.  I  wish  I  could  ask  you  to  join  me.  But  he's 
been  so  generous.     I  mustn't  run  expenses  up  you  see  dear." 

"  Of  course  not.  I'll  come  in  after  supper.  I'm  not 
quite  sure  about  to-night." 

"  Well  —  I  hope  I  shall  see  you  on  Saturday.  I  can  give 
you  tea." 

"  I'm  going  away  for  the  week-end.  I've  put  it  off  and 
off.     I  must  go  this  week." 

Miss  Dear  frowned.  "  Well  dear,  come  in  and  see  me 
on  your  way." 


Miss  Dear  sat  down  with  an  indrawn  breath. 

Miriam  drew  her  Gladstone  bag  a  little  closer.  "  I  have 
only  a  second." 

"  All  right  dear.     You've  only  just  come." 

It  was  as  if  nothing  had  happened  the  whole  week.  She 
was  not  going  to  say  anything.  She  was  ill  again  just  in 
time  for  the  week-end.  She  looked  fearfully  ill.  Was 
she  ill  ?     The  room  was  horrible  —  desolate  and  angry.  .  .  . 

Miriam  sat  listening  to  the  indrawn  breathings. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  It's  my  epileptiform  neuralgia  again.  I  thought  Dr. 
Ashley-Densley  would  have  been  in.  I  suppose  he's  off  for 
the  week-end." 

She  lay  back  pale  and  lifeless  looking  with  her  eyes  closed. 

"  All  right,  I  won't  go,  that's  about  it,"  said  Miriam 
angrily. 


322  THETUNNEL 

7 

"  Have  another  cup  dear.  He  said  the  picture  was  like 
me  and  like  my  name.  He  thinks  it's  the  right  name  for 
me  — '  you'll  always  be  able  to  inspire  affection  '  he  said." 

"  Yes  that's  true." 

"  He  wants  me  to  change  my  first  name.  He  thought 
Eleanor  would  be  pretty." 

44  I  say;  look  here." 

"  Of  course  I  can't  make  any  decision  until  I  know  cer- 
tain things." 

44  D'you  mean  to  say  .  .  .  goodness !  " 

Miss  Dear  chuckled  indulgently,  making  little  brisk 
movements  about  the  tea-tray. 

"  So  I'm  to  be  called  Eleanor  Dear.  He's  a  dear  little 
man.  I'm  very  fond  of  him.  But  there  is  an  earlier 
friend." 

44  Oh " 

44  I  thought  you'd  help  me  out." 

44  Well  dear,  I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind  calling  and 
finding  out  for  me  how  the  land  lies." 

Miriam's  eyes  fixed  the  inexorable  shapely  outlines  of  the 
tall  figure.  That  dignity  would  never  go ;  but  there  was 
something  that  would  never  come  .  .  .  there  would  be 
nothing  but  fuss  and  mystification  for  the  man.  She  would 
have  a  house  and  a  dignified  life.  He,  at  home,  would  have 
death.  But  these  were  the  women.  But  she  had  liked  the 
book.  There  was  something  in  it  she  had  felt.  But  a  man 
reading,  seeing  only  bits  and  points  of  view  would  never 
find  that  far-away  something.  She  would  hold  the  man  by 
being  everlasting  mysteriously  up  to  something  or  other 
behind  a  smile.  He  would  grow  sick  to  death  of  mysterious 
nothings;  of  things  always  centering  in  her,  leaving  every- 


THE    TUNNEL  323 

thing  else  outside  her  dignity.  Appalling.  What  zvas  she 
doing  all  the  time,  bringing  one's  eyes  back  and  back  each 
time  after  one  had  angrily  given  in,  to  question  the  ruffles 
of  her  hair  and  the  way  she  stood  and  walked  and  prepared 
to  speak. 

"  Oh  ...    !  of  course  I  will  —  you  wicked  woman." 
"  It's  very  puzzling.     You  see  he's  the  earlier  friend." 
"  You   think   if   he   knew   he   had   a    rival.     Of    course. 
Quite  right." 

"  Well  dear,  I  think  he  ought  to  know." 
"  So  I'm  to  be  your  mamma.     What  a  lark." 
Miss  Dear  shed  a  fond  look.     "  I  want  you  to  meet  my 
little  man.     He's  longing  to  meet  you  ?  " 
"  Have  you  mentioned  me  to  him." 
"  Well  dear  who  should  I  mention  if  not  you?  " 

8 

"  So  I  thought  the  best  thing  to  do  would  be  to  come 
and  ask  you  what  would  be  the  best  thing  to  do  for  her." 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  done  for  her."  He  turned  away 
and  moved  things  about  on  the  mantelpiece.  Miriam's 
heart  beat  rebelliously  in  the  silence  of  the  consulting-room. 
She  sat  waiting  stifled  with  apprehension,  her  thoughts  on 
Miss  Dear's  familiar  mysterious  figure.  In  an  unendurable 
impatience  she  waited  for  more,  her  eye  smiting  the  tall 
averted  figure  on  the  hearthrug,  following  his  movements 
.  .  .  small  framed  coloured  pictures  —  very  brilliant  —  pho- 
tographs?—  of  dark  and  fair  women,  all  the  same,  their 
shoulders  draped  like  the  Soul's  Awakening,  their  chests 
bare,  all  of  them  with  horrible  masses  of  combed  out 
waving  hair  like  the  woman  in  the  Harlene  shop  only  waving 
naturally.  The  most  awful  minxes  .  .  .  his  ideals.  What 
a  man.  What  a  ghastly  world.  "If  she  were  to  go  to  the 
south  of  France,  at  once,  she  might  live  for  years  "... 


324  T  H  E    TU  N  N  KL 

this  is  hearing  about  death,  in  a  consulting-room  .  .  .  no 

ape  .  .  .  everything  in  the  room  holding  you  in.  The 
Death  Sentence.  .  .  .  People  would  not  die  if  they  did  not 
go  to  consulting-rooms  .  .  .  doctors  make  you  die  .  .  . 
they  watch  and  threaten. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  (Hit  with  it,  don't 
be  so  important  and  mysterious. 

"  Don't  you  know,  my  dear  girl?"  Dr.  Densley  wheeled 
round  with  searching  observant  eyes. 

"Hasn't  she  told  you?"  he  added  quietly  with  his  eyes 
on  his  nails.  "  She's  phthisical.  She's  in  the  first  stages 
of  pulmonary  tuberculosis." 

The  things  in  the  dark  room  darkled  with  a  curious  dull 
flash  along  all  their  edges  and  settled  in  a  stilling  dusky 
gloom.  Everything  in  the  room  dingy  and  dirty  and  de- 
caying, but  the  long  lean  upright  figure.  In  time  he  would 
die  of  something,  Phthisis  .  .  .  that  curious  terrible  damp 
mouldering  smell,  damp  warm  faint  human  fungus  .  .  . 
in  Aunt  Henderson's  bedroom.  .  .  .  But  she  had  got  bet- 
ter. .  .  .  But  the  curate  ought  to  know.  But  perhaps  he 
too,  perhaps  she  had  imagined  that.  .  .  . 

"  It  seems  strange  she  has  not  told  such  an  old  friend." 

"  I'm  not  an  old  friend.  I've  only  known  her  about  two 
months.     I'm  hardly  a  friend  at  all." 

Dr.  Densley  was  roaming  about  the  room.  "  You've  been 
a  friend  in  need  to  that  poor  girl  "  he  murmured  contem- 
plating the  window  curtains.  "  I  recognised  that  when  I 
saw  you  in  her  room  last  week."     How  superficial.  .  .  . 

"Where  did  you  meet  her?"  he  said,  a  curious  gentle 
high  tone  on  the  where  and  a  low  one  on  the  meet  as  if 
he   were  questioning  a  very  delicate  patient. 

"  My  sister  picked  her  up  at  a  convalescent  home." 

He  turned  very  sharply  and  came  and  sat  down  in  a  low 
chair  opposite  Miriam's  low  chair. 


THE   TUNNEL  325 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it  my  dear  girl "  he  said  sitting  for- 
ward so  that  his  clasped  hands  almost  touched  Miriam's 
knees. 

9 

"  And  she  told  you  I  was  her  oldest  friend,"  he  said 
getting  up  and  going  back  to  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  first  met  Miss  Dear "  he  resumed  after  a  pause, 
speaking  like  a  witness  "  last  Christmas.  I  called  in  at 
Baker  Street  and  found  the  superintendent  had  four  of  her 
disengaged  nurses  down  with  influenza.  At  her  request  I 
ran  up  to  see  them.  Miss  Dear  was  one  of  the  number. 
Since  that  date  she  has  summoned  me  at  all  hours  on  any 
and  every  pretext.  What  I  can,  I  have  done  for  her.  She 
knows  perfectly  well  her  condition.  She  has  her  back 
against  the  wall.  She's  making  a  splendid  fight.  But  the 
one  thing  that  would  give  her  a  chance  she  obstinately  re- 
fuses to  do.  Last  summer  I  found  for  her  employment  in 
a  nursing  home  in  the  South  of  France.  She  refused  to  go, 
though  I  told  her  plainly  what  would  be  the  result  of  an- 
other winter  in  England." 

"Ought  she  to  marry?"  said  Miriam  suddenly,  closely 
watching  him. 

"  Is  she  thinking  of  marrying,  my  dear  girl "  he  an- 
swered, looking  at  his  nails. 

"  Well  of  course  she  might " 

"  Is  there  a  sweetheart  on  the  horizon?" 

"  Well  she  inspires  a  great  deal  of  affection.  I  think  she 
is  inspiring  affection  now." 

Dr.  Densley  threw  back  his  head  with  a  laugh  that  caught 
his  breath  and  gasped  in  and  out  on  a  high  tone,  leaving 
his  silent  mouth  wide  open  when  he  again  faced  Miriam 
with  the  laughter  still  in  his  eyes. 

"  Tell  me  my  dear  girl "  he  said  smiting  her  knee  with 


326  THE    TUNNEL 

gentle  affection,  "  is  there  someone  who  would  like  to 
marry  her?  " 

"What  I  want  to  know"  said  Miriam  very  briskly  "is 
whether  such  a  person  ought  to  know  about  the  state  of 
her  health."  She  found  herself  cold  and  trembling  as  she 
asked.      Miss  Dear's  eyes  seemed  fixed  upon  her. 

"  The  chance  of  a  tuberculous  woman  in  marriage  "  re- 
cited Dr.  Densley  "  is  a  holding  up  of  the  disease  with 
the  first  child ;  after  the  second  she  usually   fails." 

Why  children?  A  doctor  could  see  nothing  in  marriage 
but  children.  This  man  saw  women  with  a  sort  of  admir- 
ing pity.  He  probably  estimated  all  those  women  on  the 
mantelpiece  according  to  their  child-bearing  capacity. 

"  Personally,  I  do  not  believe  in  forbidding  the  marriage 
of  consumptives ;  provided  both  parties  know  what  they 
are  doing;  and  if  they  are  quite  sure  they  cannot  do  with- 
out each  other.  We  know  so  little  about  heredity  and  dis- 
ease, we  do  not  know  always  what  life  is  about.  Person- 
ally I  would  not  divide  two  people  who  are  thoroughly  de- 
voted to  each  other." 

"  No  "  said  Miriam  coldly. 

"  Is  the  young  man  in  a  position  to  take  her  abroad  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  more  than  I  know  "  said  Miriam  im- 
patiently getting  up. 

Dr.  Densley  laughed  again  and  rose. 

"  Pm  very  glad  you  came  my  dear  girl.  Come  again 
soon  and  report  progress.  You're  so  near  you  can  run  in 
any  time  when  you're  free." 

"  Thank  you "  said  Miriam  politely,  scrutinising  him 
calmly  as  he  waved  and  patted  her  out  into  the  hall. 

10 

Impelled  by  an  uncontrollable  urgency  she  made  her 
way  along  the  Marylebone  Road.     Miss  Dear  was  not  ex- 


THE   TUNNEL  327 

pecting  her  till  late.  But  the  responsibility,  the  urgency. 
She  must  go  abroad.  About  Dr.  Densley.  That  was  easy 
enough.  There  was  a  phrase  ready  about  that  somewhere. 
Three  things.  But  she  could  not  go  abroad  to-night.  Why 
not  go  to  the  Lyons  at  Portland  Road  station  and  have  a 
meal  and  get  calm  and  think  out  a  plan?  But  there  was  no 
time  to  lose.  There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  She  ar- 
rived at  the  dark  gate  breathless  and  incoherent.  A  man 
was  opening  the  gate  from  the  inside.  He  stood  short  and 
compact  in  the  gloom  holding  it  open  for  her. 

"  Is  it  Miss  Henderson?  "  he  said  nervously  as  she  passed. 

"  Yes  "  said  Mriiam  stopping  dead,  flooded  with  sadness. 

"  I  have  been  hoping  to  see  you  for  the  last  ten  days  " 
he  said  hurriedly  and  as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard.  In 
the  impenetrable  gloom  darker  than  the  darkness  his  voice 
was  a  thread  of  comfort. 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  Could  you  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  of  course." 

"  If  you  will  give  me  your  number  in  Wimpole  Street 
I  will  send  you  a  note." 

11 

"  My  dear!" 

The  tall  figure,  radiant,  lit  from  head  to  foot,  "  as  the 
light  on  a  falling  wave  "  ..."  as  the  light  on  a  falling 
wave."  .  .  . 

Everything  stood  still  as  they  gazed  at  each  other.  Her 
own  self  gazed  at  her  out  of  Miss  Dear's  eyes. 

"  Well  I'm  bothered  "  said  Miriam  at  last,  sinking  into  a 
chair. 

"  No  need  to  be  bothered  any  more  dear  "  laughed  Miss 
Dear. 

"  It's  extraordinary."     She  tried  to  recover  the  glory  of 


328  THE    TUNNEL 

the  first  moment  in  speechless  contemplation  of  the  radiant 
figure  now  moving  chairs  near  to  the  lamp.  The  disap- 
pearance of  the  gas,  the  shaded  lamp,  the  rector's  wife's 
manner,  the  rector's  wife's  quiet  stylish  costume;  it  was 
like  a  prepared  scene.  How  funny  it  would  be  to  know  a 
rector's  wife. 

"  He's  longing  to  meet  you.  I  shall  have  a  second  room 
to-morrow.     We  will  have  a  tea  party." 

"  It  was  to-day,  of  course." 

"Just  before  you  came"  said  Miss  Dear  her  glowing 
face  bent,  her  hands  brushing  at  the  new  costume.  You'll 
be  our  greatest  friend." 

"  But  how  grand  you  are." 

"  He  made  my  future  his  care  some  days  ago  dear.  As 
long  as  I  live  you  shall  want  for  nothing  he  said." 

"  And  to-day  it  all  came  out." 

"  Of  course  he'll  have  to  get  a  living  dear.  But  we've 
decided  to  ignore  the  world." 

What  did  she  mean  by  that.  .  .  . 

"  You  won't  have  to." 

"  Well  dear  I  mean  let  the  world  go  by." 

"  I  see.  He's  a  jewel.  I  think  you've  made  a  very  good 
choice.  You  can  make  your  mind  easy  about  that.  I  saw 
the  great  medicine  man  to-day." 

"  It  was  all  settled  without  that  dear.  I  never  even 
thought  about  him. 

"  You  needn't.  No  woman  need.  He's  a  man  who 
doesn't  know  his  own  mind  and  never  will.  I  doubt  very 
much  whether  he  has  a  mind  to  know.  If  he  ever  marries 
he  will  marry  a  wife,  not  any  particular  woman  ;  a  smart 
worldly  woman  for  his  profession,  or  a  thoroughly  healthy 
female  who'll  keep  a  home  in  the  country  for  him  and  have 
children  and  pour  out  his  tea  and  grow  things  in  the  gar- 


THE   TUNNEL  329 

den,  while  he  flirts  with  patients  in  town.  He's  most 
awfully  susceptible." 

"  I  expect  we  shan't  live  in  London." 

"Well  that'll  be  better  for  you  won't  it?" 

"  How  do  you  mean  de-er  ?  " 

"  Well.  I  ought  to  tell  you  Dr.  Densley  told  me  you 
ought  to  go  abroad." 

"  There's  no  need  for  me  to  go  abroad  dear,  I  shall  be 
all  right  if  I  can  look  after  myself  and  get  into  the  air." 

"  I  expect  you  will.  Everything's  happened  just  right 
hasn't  it?" 

"  It's  all  been  in  the  hands  of  an  'igher  power,  dear." 

Miriam  found  herself  chafing  again.  It  had  all  rushed 
on,  in  a  few  minutes.  It  was  out  of  her  hands  completely 
now.  She  did  not  want  to  know  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Taunton. 
There  was  nothing  to  hold  her  any  longer.  She  had  seen 
Miss  Dear  in  the  new  part.  To  watch  the  working  out  of 
it,  to  hear  about  the  parish,  sudden  details  about  people 
she  did  not  know  —  intolerable. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 


THE  short  figure  looked  taller  in  the  cassock,  funny 
and  hounded,  like  all  curates ;  pounding  about  and 
arranging  a  place  for  her  and  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts 
while  he  repeated  how  good  it  was  of  her  to  have  come. 
He  sat  down  at  last  to  the  poached  eggs  and  tea  laid  on  one 
end  of  the  small  book-crowded  table. 

"  I  have  a  service  at  four-thirty  "  he  said  busily  eating 
and  glaring  in  front  of  him  with  unseeing  eyes,  a  little 
like  Mr.  Grove  only  less  desperate  because  his  dark  head 
was  round  and  his  eyes  were  blue  —  "  so  you  must  excuse 
my  meal.     I  have  a  volume  of  Plato  here." 

"  Oh  yes  "  said  Miriam  doubtfully. 

"  Are  you  familiar  with  Plato?  " 

She  pondered  intensely  and  rushed  in  just  in  time  to 
prevent  his  speaking  again. 

"  I  should  like  him  I  know  —  I've  come  across  extracts  in 
other  books." 

"  He  is  a  great  man ;  my  favourite  companion.  I  spend 
most  of  my  leisure  up  here  with  Plato." 

"  What  a  delightful  life  "  said  Miriam  enviously,  looking 
about  the  small  crowded  room. 

"  As  much  time  as  I  can  spare  from  my  work  at  the 
Institute  and  the  Mission  chapel ;  they  fill  my  active  hours." 

Where  would  a  woman,  a  wife-woman,  be  in  a  life  like 
this?  He  poured  himself  out  a  cup  of  tea;  the  eyes  turned 
towards  the  tea-pot  were  worried  and  hurried ;  his  whole 

330 


THE   TUNNEL  331 

compact  rounded  form  was  a  little  worried  and  anxious. 
There  was  something  —  bunnyish  about  him.  Reading 
Plato  the  expression  of  his  person  would  still  have  some- 
thing of  the  worried  rabbit  about  it.  His  face  would  be 
calm  and  intent.  Then  he  would  look  up  from  the  page, 
taking  in  a  thought  and  something  in  his  room  would  bring 
him  back  again  to  worry.  But  he  was  too  stout  to  belong 
to  a  religious  order. 

"  You  must  have  a  very  busy  life  "  said  Miriam,  her 
attention  wandering  rapidly  off  hither  and  thither. 

"  Of  course  "  he  said  turning  away  from  the  table  to  the 
fire  beside  which  she  sat.  "  I  think  the  clergy  should  keep 
in  touch  to  some  extent  with  modern  thought  —  in  so  far 
as  it  helps  them  with  their  own  particular  work." 

Miriam  wondered  why  she  felt  no  desire  to  open  the 
subject  of  religion  and  science;  or  any  other  subject.  It 
was  so  extraordinary  to  find  herself  sitting  tete-a-tete  with 
a  clergyman,  and  still  more  strange  to  find  him  communica- 
tively trying  to  show  her  his  life  from  the  inside.  He  went 
on  talking,  not  looking  at  her  but  gazing  into  the  fire.  She 
tried  in  vain  to  tether  her  attention.  It  was  straining  away 
to  work  upon  something,  upon  some  curious  evidence  it 
had  collected  since  she  came  into  the  room ;  and  even  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  person  and  her  mind  noting  the 
strange  contradiction  between  the  thin  rippling  many-but- 
toned cassock  and  the  stout  square-toed  boots  protruding 
beneath  it,  she  could  not  completely  convince  herself  that 
he  was  there. 

"  .  .  .  novels;  my  friends  to  recommend  any  that  might 

be  helpful." 

He  had  looked  up  towards  her  with  this  phrase. 

"  Oh  yes,  Red  Pottage  "  she  said  grasping  hurriedly  and 
looking  attentive. 

"  Have  you  read  that  novel  ?  " 


332  THE   TUNNEL 


<i 


No.  I  imagined  that  you  had  because  you  lent  it  to 
Miss  Dear." 

"  Miss  Dear  has  spoken  to  you  of  me." 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  Of  you  she  has  spoken  a  great  deal.  You  know  her 
very  well.  It  is  because  of  your  long  friendship  with  her 
that  I  have  taken  courage  to  ask  you  to  come  here  and  dis- 
cuss with  me  about  her  affairs." 

"  I  have  known  Miss  Dear  only  a  very  short  time  "  said 
Miriam,  sternly  gazing  into  the  fire.  Nothing  should  per- 
suade her  to  become  the  caretaker  of  the  future  Mrs. 
Taunton. 

"  That  surprises  me  very  much  indeed  "  he  said  propping 
his  head  upon  his  hand  by  one  finger  held  against  a  tooth. 
He  sat  brooding. 

"  She  is  very  much  in  need  of  friends  just  now  "  he  said 
suddenly  and  evenly  towards  the  fire  without  removing 
his  finger  from  his  tooth. 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam  gravely. 

"  You  are,  nevertheless,  the  only  intimate  woman  friend 
to  whom  just  now  she  has  access." 

"  I've  done  little  things   for  her.     I  couldn't  do  much." 

"  You  are  sorry  for  her,"  Mr.  Taunton  was  studying 
her  face  and  waiting. 

"  Well  —  I  don't  know  —  she  "  she  consulted  the  fire  in- 
tensely, looking  for  the  truth ;  "  she  seems  to  me  too  strong 
for  that."  Light!  Women  have  no  pity  on  women  .  .  . 
they  know  how  strong  women  are ;  a  sick  man  is  more  help- 
less and  pitiful  than  a  sick  woman;  almost  as  helpless  as 
a  child.  People  in  order  of  strength  .  .  .  women,  men, 
children.  This  man  without  his  worldly  props,  his  money 
and  his  job  and  his  health  had  not  a  hundredth  part  of  the 
strength  of  a  woman  .  .  .  nor  had  Dr.  Densley.  .  .  . 

"  I  think  she  fascinated  me." 


THE   TUNNEL  333 

Mr.  Taunton  gathered  himself  together  in  his  chair  and 
sat  very  upright. 

"  She  has  an  exceptional  power  of  inspiring  affection  — 
affection  and  the  desire  to  give  her  the  help  she  so  sorely 
needs." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  it "  said  Miriam  judicially.  But  you 
are  very  much  mistaken  in  calling  on  me  for  help  .  .  . 
'  domestic  work  and  the  care  of  the  aged  and  the  sick  ' — 
very  convenient  —  all  the  stuffy  nerve-racking  never-end- 
ing things  to  be  dumped  on  to  women  —  who  are  to  be 
openly  praised  and  secretly  despised  for  their  unselshness 
—  I've  got  twice  the  brain  power  you  have.  You  are  some- 
thing of  a  scholar;  but  there  is  a  way  in  which  my  time  is 
more  valuable  than  yours.  There  is  a  way  in  which  it  is 
more  right  for  you  to  be  tied  to  this  woman  than  for  me. 
Your  reading  is  a  habit,  like  most  men's  reading,  not  a 
quest.  You  don't  want  it  disturbed.  But  you  are  kinder 
than  I  am.  You  are  splendid.  It  will  be  awful  —  you 
don't  know  how  awful  yet  —  poor  little  man. 

"  I  think  it  has  been  so  in  my  case  if  you  will  allow  me 
to  tell  you." 

"  Oh  yes  do  "  said  Miriam  a  little  archly  — "  of  course  — 
I  know  —  I  mean  to  say  Miss  Dear  has  told  me." 

"  Yes  "  he  said  eagerly. 

"  How  things  are  "  she  finished  looking  shyly  into  the  fire. 

"  Nevertheless  if  you  will  allow  me  I  should  like  to  tell 
you  exactly  what  has  occurred  and  to  ask  your  advice  as 
to  the  future.     My  mother  and  sisters  are  in  the  Midlands." 

"  Yes  "  said  Miriam  in  a  carefully  sombre  non-committal 
tone ;  waiting  for  the  revelation  of  some  of  the  things  men 
expect  from  mothers  and  sisters  and  wondering  whether 
he  was  beginning  to  see  her  unsuitability  for  the  role  of 
convenient  sister. 

"  When  my  rector  sent  me  to  look  up  Miss  Dear  "  he 


334  THE    TUNNEL 

began  heavily  "  I  thought  it  was  ail  ordinary  parish  case 
and  I  was  shocked  beyond  measure  to  find  a  delicately 
nurtured  ladylike  girl  in  such  a  situation.  I  came  back 
here  to  my  rooms  and  found  myself  unable  to  enter  into 
my  usual  employments.  I  was  haunted  by  the  thought 
of  what  that  lonely  girl  who  might  have  been  one  of  my 
own  sisters  —  must  be  suffering  and  enduring  and  I  re- 
turned to  give  what  relief  I  could  without  waiting  to  report 
the  case  to  my  rector  for  ordinary  parish  relief.  I  am  not 
dependent  on  my  stipend  and  I  felt  that  I  could  not  with- 
hold the  help  she  ought  to  have.  I  saw  her  landlady  and 
made  arrangements  as  to  her  feeding  and  called  each  day 
myself  to  take  little  things  to  cheer  her  —  as  a  rule  when 
my  day's  work  was  done.  I  have  never  come  in  contact 
with  a  more  pathetic  case.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  for 
...  a  moment  that  she  viewed  my  visits  and  the  help  I 
was  so  glad  to  be  able  to  give  ...  in  ...  in  any  other 
light  .  .  .  that  she  viewed  me  as  other  than  her  parish 
priest." 

"  Of  course  not "  said  Miriam  violently. 

"  She  is  a  singularly  attractive  and  lovable  nature.  That 
to  my  mind  makes  her  helplessness  and  resourcelessness  all 

the    more    painfully    pathetic.     Her    very    name "    he 

paused  gazing  into  the  fire.  "  I  told  her  lately  in  one  of 
her  moments  of  deep  depression  that  she  would  never 
want  for  friends,  that  she  would  always  inspire  affection 
wherever  she  went  and  that  as  long  as  I  lived  she  should 
never  know  want.  Last  week  —  the  day  I  met  you  at  the 
gate  —  finding  her  up  and  apparently  very  much  better,  I 
suggested  that  it  would  be  well  to  discontinue  my  visits 
for  the  present,  pointing  out  the  social  reasons  and  so 
forth  ...  I  had  with  me  a  letter  from  a  very  pleasant 
Home  in  Bournemouth.     She  had  hinted  much  earlier  that 


THE   TUNNEL  335 

a  long  rest  in  some  place  such  as  Bournemouth  was  what 
she  wanted  to  set  her  up  in  health.  I  am  bound  to  tell 
you  what  followed.  She  broke  down  completely,  told  me 
that,  socially  speaking,  it  was  too  late  to  discontinue  my 
visits ;  that  people  in  the  house  were  already  talking." 

"  People  in  that  house!  " — you  little  simpleton  — "Who? 
It  is  the  most  monstrous  thing  I  ever  heard." 

"  Well  —  there  you  have  the  whole  story.  The  poor 
girl's  distress  and  dependence  were  most  moving.  I  have 
a  very  great  respect  for  her  character  and  esteem  for  her 
personality  —  and  of  course  I  am  pledged." 

"  I  see,"  said  Miriam  narrowly  regarding  him.  Do  you 
want  to  be  saved  —  ought  I  to  save  you  —  why  should  I 
save  you  —  it  is  a  solution  of  the  whole  thing  and  a  use  for 
your  money  —  you  won't  marry  her  when  you  know  how  ill 
she  is. 

"  It  is  of  course  the  immediate  future  that  causes  me 
anxiety  and  disquietude.  It  is  there  I  need  your  advice  and 
help." 

"  I  see.     Is  Miss  Dear  going  to  Bournemouth  ?  " 

"  Well ;  that  is  just  it.  Now  that  the  opportunity  is  there 
she  seems  disinclined  to  avail  herself  of  it.  I  hope  that 
you  will  support  me  in  trying  to  persuade  her." 

"  Of  course.     She  must  go." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so.  It  is  obvious  that  definite  plans 
must  be  postponed  until  she  is  well  and  strong." 

"  You  would  be  able  to  go  down  and  see  her." 

"  Occasionally,  as  my  duties  permit,  oh  yes.  It  is  a  very 
pleasant  place  and  I  have  friends  in  Bournemouth  who 
would  visit  her." 

"  She  ought  to  be  longing  to  go  "  said  Miriam  on  her 
strange  sudden  smile.  It  had  come  from  somewhere ;  the 
atmosphere  was  easier;  suddenly  in  the  room  with  her  was 


336  THE    TUNNEL 

the  sense  of  bluebells,  a  wood  blue  with  bluebells,  and  dim 
roofs,  roofs  in  a  town  .  .  .  sur  les  toits  .  .  .  and  books ; 
people  reading  books  under  them. 

Mr.  Taunton  smiled  too. 

"  Unfortunately  that  is  not  so  "  he  said  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  and  crossing  his  legs  comfortably. 


"  You  know  "  he  said  turning  his  blue  gaze  from  the  fire 
to  Miriam's  face,  "  I  have  never  been  so  worried  in  my  life 
as  I  have  during  the  last  ten  days.  It's  upsetting  my  win- 
ter's work.  It  is  altogether  too  difficult  and  impossible.  I 
cannot  see  any  possible  adjustment.  You  see  I  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  continually  interrupted  and  in  such  —  strange  ways. 
She  came  here  yesterday  afternoon  with  a  list  of  complaints 
about  her  landlady.  I  really  cannot  attend  to  these  things. 
She  sends  me  telegrams.  Only  this  morning  there  was  a 
telegram.  Come  at  once.  Difficulty  with  chemist.  Of 
course  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  leave  my  work  at  a 
moment's  notice.  This  afternoon  I  called.  It  seems  that 
she  was  under  the  impression  that  there  had  been  some 
insolence  ...  it  absorbs  so  much  time  to  enter  into  long 
explanations  with  regard  to  all  these  people.  I  cannot  do 
it.     That  is  what  it  comes  to.     I  cannot  do  it." 

Ah.  You've  lost  your  temper;  like  anyone  else.  You 
want  to  shelve  it.  Anyone  would.  But  being  a  man  you 
want  to  shelve  it  on  to  a  woman.  You  don't  care  who  hears 
the  long  tales  as  long  as  you  don't.  .  .  . 

"  Have  you  seen  her  doctor?  " 

"  No.     I  think  just  now  he  is  out  of  town." 

"Really?     Are  you  sure?" 

"  You  think  I  should  see  him." 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  will  do  so  on  the  first  opportunity.     That  is  the  next 


THE   TUNNEL  337 

step.  Meantime  I  will  write  provisionally  to  Bourne- 
mouth." 

"  Oh,  she  must  go  to  Bournemouth  anyhow ;  that's  set- 
tled." 

"  Perhaps  her  medical  man  may  help  there." 

"  He  won't  make  her  do  anything  she  doesn't  mean  to 
do." 

"  I  see  you  are  a  reader  of  character." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am.  I  always  begin  by  idealising 
people." 

"  Do  you  indeed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  always ;  and  then  they  grow  smaller  and  smaller." 

"Is  that  your  invariable  experience  of  humanity?" 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  an  altruist." 

"  I  think  one  must  have  one's  heroes." 

"In  life  or  in  books?" 

"  In  both  perhaps  —  one  has  them  certainly  in  books  — 
in  records.     Do  you  know  this  book  ?  " 

Miriam  sceptically  accepted  the  bulky  volume  he  took 
down  from  the  book-crowded  mantelshelf. 

"  Oh  how  interesting  "  she  said  insincerely  when  she  had 
read  Great  Thoughts  from  Great  Lives  on  the  cover.  .  .  . 
I  ought  to  have  said  I  don't  like  extracts.  "  Lives  of  great 
men  all  remind  us.  We  can  make  our  lives  sublime,"  she 
read  aloud  under  her  breath  from  the  first  page.  ...  I 
ought  to  go.  I  can't  enter  into  this.  ...  I  hate  '  great 
men  '  I  think.  .  .  . 

"  That  book  has  been  a  treasure-house  to  me  —  for  many 
years.  I  know  it  now  almost  by  heart.  If  it  interests  you, 
you  will  allow  me  I  hope  to  present  it  to  you." 

"  Oh  you  must  not  let  me  deprive  you  of  it  —  oh  no.  It 
is  very  kind  of  you ;  but  you  really  mustn't."  She  looked 
up  and  returned  quickly  to  the  fascinating  pages.  Sentences 
shone  out  striking  at  her  heart  and  brain  .  .  .  names  in 


338  THE    TUNNEL 

italics ;  Marcus  Aurelius  .  .  .  Lao-Tse.  Confucius  .  .  . 
Clement  of  Alexandria  .  .  .  Jacob  Boehme.  "  It's  full  of 
the  most  fascinating  things.  Oh  no ;  I  couldn't  think  of 
taking  it.  You  must  keep  it.  Who  is  Jacob  Boehme? 
That  name  always  fascinates  me.  I  must  have  read  some- 
thing, somewhere,  a  long  time  ago.  I  can't  remember. 
But  it  is  such  a  wonderful  name." 

"  Jacob  Boehme  was  a  German  visionary.     You  will  find 
of  course  all  shades  of  opinion  there." 

"  All   contradicting   each   other ;    that's   the   worst   of    it. 
Still,  I  suppose  all  roads  lead  to  Rome." 
"  I  see  you  have  thought  a  great  deal." 
"  Well  "  said  Miriam  feverishly,  "  there's  always  scioice, 
always  all  that  awful  business  of  science,  and  no  getting  rid 
of  it." 

"  I   think  —  in  that  matter  —  one  must  not  allow   one's 
mind  to  be  led  away  ?  " 

"  But  one  must  keep  an  open  mind." 
"Are  you  familiar  with  Professor  Tyndall?" 
"  Only  by  meeting  him  in  books  about  Huxley." 
"  Ah  —  he  was  very  different ;  very  different." 
"  Huxley  "  said  Miriam  with  intense  bitterness  "  was  an 
egoistic  adolescent  —  all  his  life.     I  never  came  across  any- 
thing like  his  conceited  complacency  in  my  life.     The  very 
look  of  his  side-whiskers, —  well,  there  you  have  the  whole 
man."     Her  heart  burned  and  ached,  beating  out  the  words. 
She  rose  to  go  holding  the  volume  in  hands  that  shook  to 
the  beating  of  her  heart.     Far  away  in  the  bitter  mist  of  the 
darkening  room  was  the  strange  little  figure. 
"  Let  me  just  write  your  name  in  the  book." 
"  Oh,  well,  really,  it  is  too  bad  —  thank  you  very  much." 
He  carried  the  book  to  the  window-sill  and  stood  writing 
his  bent  head  very  dark  and  round  in  the  feeble  grey  light. 
Happy  monk  alone  up  under  the  roof  with  his  Plato.     It 
was  a  shame. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 


"\\  7HAT  a  huge  room?" 

VV  "Isn't  it  a  big  room.  Come  in  young  lady." 
Miriam  crossed  to  the  fireplace  through  a  warm  faintly 
sweet  atmosphere.  A  small  fire  was  smoking  and  the  gas 
was  partly  turned  down  but  the  room  was  warm  with  a 
friendly  brown  warmth.  Something  had  made  her  linger 
in  the  hall  until  Mrs.  Bailey  had  come  to  the  dining-room 
door  and  stood  there  with  the  door  wide  open  and  some- 
thing to  communicate  waiting  behind  her  friendly  greetings. 
As  a  rule  there  was  nothing  behind  her  friendly  greetings 
but  friendly  approval  and  assurance.  Miriam  had  never 
seen  the  dining-room  door  open  before  and  sought  dis- 
traction from  the  communicativeness  by  drifting  towards 
it  and  peering  in.  Once  in  and  sitting  in  the  chair  between 
the  fireplace  and  Mrs.  Bailey's  tumbled  work-basket  stand- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  long  table,  bound  to  stay  taking 
in  the  room  until  Mrs.  Bailey  returned,  she  regretted  look- 
ing in.  The  hall  and  the  stairs  and  her  own  room  would 
be  changed  now  she  knew  what  this  room  was  like.  In 
her  fatigue  she  looked  about  half  taking  in  half  recoiling 
from  the  contents  of  the  room.  "  He  stopped  and  got  off 
his  bicycle  and  I  said  you  don't  seem  very  pleased  to  see 
me."  Already  he  knew  that  they  were  tiresome  strangers 
to  each  other.  "  I  can't  go  dancing  off  to  Bournemouth 
at  a  moment's  notice  dear."     "  Well,  I  strongly  advise  you 

339 


34o  T  H  E    T  U  N  N  E  L 

to  go  as  soon  as  you  can."  "  Of  course  I'm  going,  but  I 
can't  just  dance  off."  "  Don't  let  liim  get  into  the  habit 
of  associating  you  with  the  idea  of  worry."  If  she  didn't 
worry  him  and  was  always  a  little  ill,  and  pretty  ..."  he 
says  he  can't  do  without  her.  I've  told  him  without  reserve 
what  the  chances  are  and  given  them  my  blessing."  Did 
he  really  feel  that  suddenly  sitting  there  in  the  consulting- 
room?  If  only  she  wouldn't  be  so  mysterious  and  im- 
portant about  nothing.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  hugeness  in  the  room,  radiating  from  the 
three-armed  dim-globed  chandelier,  going  up  and  up;  to 
the  high  heavily-moulded  smoke-grimed  ceiling,  spreading 
out  right  and  left  along  the  length  of  the  room,  a  large 
enclosed  quietness,  flowing  up  to  the  two  great  windows, 
hovering  up  and  down  the  dingy  rep  and  dingy  lace  curtains 
and  the  drab  coloured  Venetian  blinds  through  whose  chinks 
the  street  came  in.  Tansley  Street  was  there,  pressing  its 
secret  peace  against  the  closed  windows.  Between  the 
windows  a  long  strip  of  mirror  framed  in  tarnished  gilt, 
reflected  the  peace  of  the  room.  Miriam  glanced  about 
peering  for  its  secret;  her  eye  running  over  the  length  of 
the  faded  patterned  deep  fringed  table  cover,  the  large 
cracked  pink  bowl  in  the  centre,  holding  an  aspidistra  .  .  . 
brown  cracked  leaves  sticking  out ;  the  faded  upholstery 
of  the  armchair  opposite  her,  the  rows  of  dining-room 
chairs  across  the  way  in  line  with  the  horsehair  sofa;  the 
piano  in  the  space  between  the  sofa  and  the  window;  the 
huge  mirror  in  the  battered  tarnished  gilt  frame  sweep- 
ing half  way  up  the  wall  above  the  mantelpiece,  reflecting 
the  pictures  and  engravings  hung  rather  high  on  the  op- 
posite wall,  bought  and  liked  long  ago,  the  faded  hearthrug 
under  her  feet,  the  more  faded  carpet  disappearing  under 
the  long  table,  the  dark  stare  of  the  fireplace,  the  heavy 
marble  mantelpiece,  the  marble  cased  clock  and  opaque  pink 


THE    TUNNEL  341 

glass  fat-bodied  jugs  scrolled  with  a  dingy  pattern,  dusty 
lustres,  curious  objects  in  dull  metal.  .  .  . 


"  It'll  give  my  chicks  a  better  chance.  It  isn't  fair  on 
them  —  living  in  the  kitchen  and  seeing  nobody." 

"  And  you  mean  to  risk  sending  the  lodgers'  away." 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  it  some  time.  When  the 
dining-room  left  I  thought  I  wouldn't  fill  up  again.  Miss 
Campbell's  going  too." 

"Miss  Campbell?" 

"  The  drawn-room  and  drawn-room  bedroom  .  .  .  my 
word  .  .  .  had  her  rooms  turned  out  every  week,  carpets 
up  and  all." 

"  Every  iveek! " 

"  Always  talking  about  microbes.     My  word." 

"How  awful.     And  all  the  other  people?" 

"  I've  written  them "  smiled  Mrs.  Bailey  at  her  busily 
interlacing  fingers. 

"  Oh." 

"  For  the  14th  prox ;  they're  all  weekly." 

"  Then  if  they  don't  stay  as  boarders  they'll  have  to 
trot  out  at  once." 

"  Well  I  thought  if  I  was  going  to  begin  I'd  better  take 
the  bull  by  the  horns.  I've  heard  of  two.  Norwegian 
young  gentlemen.  They're  coming  next  week  and  they 
both  want  large  bedrooms." 

"  I  think  it's  awful  pluckly  if  you've  had  no  experience." 

"  Well,  young  lady,  I  see  it  like  this.  What  others  have 
done,  I  can.  I  feel  I  must  do  something  for  the  children. 
Mrs.  Reynolds  has  married  three  of  her  daughters  to 
boarders.     She's  giving  up.     Elsie  is  going  into  the  typing." 

"  You  haven't  written  to  me." 

"  You  stay  where  you  are,  young  lady." 


34a  T  II  E    TU  NNEL 

"\\\11  —  1  think  it's  awfully  sweet  of  you  Mrs.  Bailey." 

"  Don't  you  think  about  that.  It  needn't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  you." 

"Well  —  of  course  —  if  you  heard  of  a  hoarder " 

Mrs.  Bailey  made  a  little  dab  at  Miriam's  knee.  "  You 
stay  where  you  arc  my  dear." 

"  I  do  hope  it  will  he  a  success.  The  house  will  be  com- 
pletely changed." 

"  I  know  it's  a  risk.  But  if  you  get  on  it  pays  better. 
There's  less  'work  in  it  and  you've  got  a  house  to  live  in. 
Nothing  venture,  nothing  have.  It's  no  good  to  be  back- 
ward in  coming  forward  nowadays.  We've  got  to  march 
with  the  times." 

Miriam  tried  to  see  Mrs.  IJailey  presiding,  the  huge  table 
lined  with  guests.  She  doubted.  Those  boarding-houses 
in  YVoburn  Place,  the  open  windows  in  the  summer,  the 
strange  smart  people,  in  evening  dress,  the  shaded  lamps, 
she  would  be  lost.  She  could  never  hold  her  own.  The 
quiet  house  would  be  utterly  changed.  There  would  be 
people  going  about,  in  possession,  all  over  the  front  steps 
and  at  the  dining-room  windows  and  along  the  drawing- 
room  balcony. 


This  book  ia  DUE  mi  the  laAjckite  stamped  helow 


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i.Irtd-,. 


JUN  1      1933 
JG  2        :35 


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Sep  18  61 


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